The Paradox of Choice
by Morleigh
Summary: She already knew her choice... so why delay what she already knew would happen?They were on the cusp of something great, but fear and a face got in the way. Now they must decide if they surrender or walk away and if the choice was worth it in the end.
1. The Choice

_**Author's Note:** _

_First, I own absolutely nothing save a cd from the Original London Recording. Aside from that Erik, Christine, and the whole phantom story is not mine and I am not making any profits from this._

_Second: This is primarily a stage ALW verse with some Leroux, Kay, and movie thrown in there for the hell of it. Absolutely no Raoul bashing in this one, I actually like the guy, but primarily E/C with R/C moments._

_Third: I need to thank two very important people. Schmooie, for encouraging me to actually do this and my beta who's patient and knowledgeable and just plain rocks my socks._

_Anyway…_

* * *

**Chapter #1  
The Choice**

_It is always your next move._  
**Napoleon Hill**

_"…Christine, that's all I ask of you…"_

The last note died in the rafters of the theatre, but Erik's plea lay in the air.

No one, save the managers and the Vicomte, knew the Script was abandoned a good twenty minutes ago. Nor did they care their Don Juan of the first three acts had vanished off the stage. All the patrons cared about was the choice that lay before Aminta. Would she forsake her mysterious Don Juan to keep her innocence, or would she succumb to her lover's dark world of passion and fire?

Raoul okayed to the soldier as his elbow. He nodded his understanding and retrieved the weapon from the folds of his cloak. Across the theatre, the managers took note and alerted their soldier and readied themselves for a bloody finish. This had to end now or that bastard would never let her go.

_Do something,_ Raoul implored her, _Slap his face! Rip off the damn mask! _

The gunmen raised the barrel and aimed.

But Christine saw none of this. Her eyes were fixed on the man in front of her. No longer an angel, a phantom, or her tutor, but a broken man asking her to save him.

Christine opened her mouth and the audience leaned in anticipation. No doubt she meant to give her answer with the most soul-shattering song the world ever heard. Nothing less then absolute and heartfelt perfection would do for the finale of this opera.

But she shut it just as quickly. This was not an opera after all. This was not the conclusion to the drama of Don Juan and Aminta, but another obstacle in the relationship of Christine and the enigmatic Erik. She could not entirely understand what he really asked of her, but she knew she stood on the cusp of something far greater then herself. One way or another, she would destroy someone, herself, Raoul, or this mystery before her.

The bare side of his face remained stoic and unmoving, like its lifeless counterpart. His eyes, however, moved from her, to the floor, to a nameless spot behind her. And when they once again settled on her, they seemed to plead with her to end this torment.

She raised her had to his face and touched the ghostly white mask. If she were honest with herself, she would admit this was the sole reason for her fear of him. The pale kidskin hid his greatest physical shame, but it also masked the great and terrible beauty of his soul. Without it, his ghostly aura melted and as a man, he frightened her far more then he ever did as the phantom.

Yet she already knew her choice.

So why delay what she already knew would happen?

Christine brought his forehead down to her own and for a moment she saw panic flash across his gold eyes. She felt him stiffened under her hands and refused to move for fear of something he could not place. He began to relax as her purpose appeared to be a need for physical contact and nothing more. Closing his eyes, he allowed her control as she closed the final distance between them.

For awhile neither moved as their souls raged; her searching for courage to make her choice and him drinking in her close proximity for what he believed was the last time. When she refused, for he did not doubt she would with her Vicomte watching over her, he knew he would let her go. Aminta's profession of undying love would be a mockery of his own dreams. But for a moment, he could pretend the words came from her soul and not penned by him in the recesses of his madness. For the last time, their voices would blend in perfect harmony and then he would live off the memory for the rest of his natural days.

Raoul watched as the scene played out be fore him, rather as nothing played out before him. His fiancée clung to the madman like a lifeline and he could not tell if she held him in a last embrace, or one promised of many other's to come. A voice he had ignore for the last year raged in his mind, begging him to listen, but he pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand.

The gendarme's barrel was trained on Don Juan's head. "Give the word, sir."

The click of the gun and low voice of Raoul reminded Erik of their audience, who all sat on the edges of their seats waiting for the glorious conclusion.

_Fools,_ he thought, _you'll never know true glory._

Erik could see the Vicomte up in his box and the gunmen watching him intently. The young boy thought to punish his crimes by ending his life. But what he could not see was that a life without Christine was not worth living. Without here, the music would simply cease and he would have nothing ahead of him but an endless stretch of silence.

He may win Christine in the end, but Erik would never give him the satisfaction of his death. He turned back to Christine and saw that she had not moved yet seemed more lost then before.

"Christine," he beseeched, "please… make your choice."

No more performances, the games had truly ended.

She too remembered they were not alone with hundreds of eyes trained on them. The patrons, all waiting for a conclusion they paid handsomely for, the cast members in the wings, and the gendarmes aimed to kill.

_The gendarmes!_!

Raoul gazed down at her from his box as the soldier waited for his signal. Even with a hand raised to end a life, Raoul looked so warm and safe. She could see what he would gain from him; wealth, happiness, and security. But she could also see what she would loose. And what she would loose stared intently at her from behind pale kidskin.

_Forgive me,_ she thought, _forgive me for everything…_

With a final sigh, she turned back to her phantom and lowered her head.

The silence of the auditorium stretched and settled in the base of her stomach like lead. His eyes did not change even as understanding spread through his person.

"Are you sure?" he asked below everyone's hearing.

She nodded.

"So be it."

There was no longer need for the theatrics he planned and found himself almost sad at their loss. A pity, the chandelier would've been quite spectacular. But he had his answer, and Christine it seemed, the dramatics no longer mattered.

Yet what did he feel now? Anger? Love? Frustration, perhaps? He prepared for weeks for this moment, writing and rewriting his plea with more care then the rest of his beloved Opera. His lair bore evidence of his dilemma as it was littered with crumpled scores he tossed aside for lack of beauty. No words could capture the depth of his torment for this girl, so in the end, he settled on the words of the Vicomte. He bore no affection for the boy but he found his honest plea for the love of another more heartfelt then anything born of his own mind.

Now, he found his brilliant mind failed him.

_Escape_, his mind commanded. _There will be nothing if you wait for the bullets!_

He gathered her close and tried to ignore the exquisite feel of her body. The rapier he drew from his belt and Christine gasped in fear.

"Down once more, my dear," he snarled. "This is the choice."

The patrons all awoke from their hypnotic trance as Don Juan drew he sword.

The rope snapped like rubber as bridge gave out underneath them.

They did not hear the audience cries as they fell into darkness. Nor the shouts of Raoul over the gunshots. All they heard as Erik led her through the labyrinth was their own heated breathing and the silence of her choice.


	2. Precautions

**Chapter #2  
Precautions**

* * *

_Nothing in her father's tales of angels resembled the image that appeared in her mirror that night. Not angelic or luminous, but a living embodiment of night itself. Even the stark white of his mask did not challenge the light, but basked in it. His voice never rose above a gentle lullaby, yet every word and breath seemed to charge the air with electricity. _

Come follow me, he sang_. Believe in me and live forever… _

A hand materialized from the folds of his cloak and he held it to her. Christine's hand moved on its own and she felt powerless against his pull. Never had she been more thrilled and terrified in her entire life.

Closer and closer she came, barely a hair's breath from his leather-clad hand. Then she heard Raoul's cries and his mysterious hold on her loosened.

For a moment, her mind cleared and the doubts raging in the depths of her psyche came to the front of her mind. But even as she tried to recognize the absurdity of the situation, his voice called to her, easing her fears.

Come follow me…

But that enigmatic presence was gone now, perhaps forever. Where he had been confident and sure-footed before, he was now clumsy and inelegant. The once-gentle grip on her hand was vice-like as he dragged her through the passageways like a sack. He spoke no words to her but cursed any hidden mechanism that did not immediately remove the barriers from their path.

Christine shuddered to think what he would have done had she refused.

"If you continue to drag your feet, you'll do nothing but ruin your shoes." He released her hand and regarded her disdainfully.

She swallowed a comment on his rough handling of her when she realized they had reached a dead end. An enormous slab of natural rock rose above them like a mountain with tendrils of moisture sliding over its surface to the ground.

"Perhaps I was dragging my feet to keep us from going the wrong way." She gestured to the wall and he laughed. The throaty baritone contrasted sharply with the luscious tenor of his singing voice.

"My dear, you should realize by now I know every inch of my opera. Why do something as foolish as getting lost?"

Pointing to the ground, Christine followed the line of his hand until she saw a hole in the floor. Not a hole exactly, but another one of his infamous trap doors. It was just large enough to squeeze a grown man through into a seemingly endless void of darkness.

Christine groaned.

"You can't expect me to go through that. I'm not a rat!" She regretted it the moment it came out of her mouth, but Erik gave no sign if he was offended.

"Simply a precaution," he stated.

"Precaution?"

"In case we have any visitors."

Before she could question him, he dropped through the door, the darkness swallowing him whole. Left alone, Christine felt the chill of the cellars seep to her very soul. Every rustle of her skirts echoed off the damp walls and Christine realized that if she screamed, no one but the rats would hear her cries.

"Are you ready?" a familiar voice rose from the trap door.

Christine suddenly felt the weight of her entire ordeal on her shoulder. No, she was not ready for any of this. The lessons, the masquerade, and the performance were all an endless mess she had to weather on her own. Even with her secret engagement to Raoul, she felt more alone since the death of her father. She worked so hard to obtain status as a diva, but with the managers obsessive need to be rid of the Opera Ghost for good, she had morphed into nothing more then a maniputable pawn. When she turned to the one person that promised her ease from her solitude, she found him just as indifferent to her torment as the managers.

As she stood above the trap door preparing to jump, she couldn't help wonder if even Erik's polite concern for her had come too late.

"I-" she swallowed. "What should I do?"

"Just drop down through the door. I will catch you."

She shifted on her feet, nervously twisting the fabric of her gown. She knew he would never intentionally harm her, but she needed some reassurance it would be worth the plunge.

"You promise?" she asked.

For a long moment, the only response was a nerve-racking silence. If he abandoned her here, frustrated with her childishness, she would not blame him.

Finally, his voice cut through. "I promise."

Christine took in a breath and considered what to do. Even with his promise, she could not drop down through the door without a care as he did. Instead, she gathered the skirts of her dress and sat down on the floor. With a tentative shove, she dangled her legs over the edge and braced her hands on the sides. She could only imagine what a ridiculous sight she made from his view.

"I'm ready," she warned.

"Go ahead."

With a final shove, Christine dropped through the door.

A scream died on her tongue as her stomach rose in her throat. Her hand flailed about seeking purchase, but she could not see them before her own eyes.

_I am going to die,_ she thought. _I'll fall and die when I reach hell._

When she feared she would fall forever, strong arms caught her round her waist and lowered her to the ground.

His arm tightened on her as he steadied them and Christine looked up to meet his eyes. The Don Juan hood dulled the luminosity of his mask, but his eyes glowed fiercely behind the kidskin. On stage, they had been tear-filled and grief-stricken and the lights dulled them to practically nothing. But here in the dark, they burned with a fiery intensity. She was never able to resist their pull and as they bore into her own, she forgot why she had to.

Her skirts were up around her knees from the fall and she suddenly remembered the risqué nature of her stage costume, but neither moved. Their rapid heart beats and ragged breath were the only sounds in their ears.

What could they do now? What should they do? Christine agreed to stay, but she had no idea what that entailed. His plea on stage hinted at marriage, but it was so at odds with the angry man dragging her through the catacombs and now the silent presence steadying her body. It was possible he only sought a companion, a friend to ward off the lonely years of his life. And she being the closest thing he had to a friend was the only possible reprise.

But there was an ocean of things between them left unspoken or explored. So much she avoided in her mind because of her own childish fear and many other emotions she lacked the strength to place. As her grip tightened on the folds of his Don Juan cloak, she realized she knew less about him now then she did when he first sang to her through her mirror.

Clearing his throat, Erik finally broke their awkward embrace. She took a moment to return to her senses and adjust her clothing as she forced down something akin to disappointment.

"Thank you," she whispered hoping her words would clear away their unease.

"You're welcome."

She felt him pull farther away and Christine leaned over to adjust a loose stocking when movement caught her eye. The figure could have been Erik, but she heard him moving somewhere behind her. Taking a closer step towards the wall, it appeared to move as she did. Reaching out, she expected to touch rough stone, or possibly wood but her hand encountered neither, the surface beneath her hand was cold and smooth. She was touching a mirror.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw her own confused face staring back at her.

Why have a full ladies dressing room, she wondered. Even with his eccentric ways, Christine could not picture Erik having any use for this. If anything, he was acutely sensitive about his appearance and his home contained nothing that could capture a reflection. She trembled as she remembered the first and last time she saw his face.

_Damn you!... Is this what you wanted to see!_

The room suddenly filled with light and she spun to see Erik silhouette in a very ordinary looking doorway.

She opened her mouth to question him again, but closed it when she saw her surroundings had changed. The walls were indeed mirrors, but in the middle was a very ordinary looking cast-iron tree. The mirrors caught the reflection of the trees in such a way it appeared she was in a forest. Her own confused reflection was gone now, replaced by an endless stretch of foliage.

"Erik… what is this?" she asked awestruck.

He left the doorway and grabbed her arm, steering her outside. When they had quit the room, Erik closed the ordinary door and turned the key.

"Perhaps you should change," he suggested, keeping his back to her. "I can't imagine that dress is comfortable."

_A dress you designed,_ she thought bitterly.

"But what was that?" she insisted.

He pushed past her and stalked towards his music room.

"In due time, my dear," he called over his shoulder. "You'll find your dresses same as they were."

Indeed, the dresses were exactly as she remembered them six months ago.. before Il Muto.. before the cemetery… before Don Juan. She sorted through the clothes and found them pristine without any dust or wrinkles to mar the fabric. Each one would be the envy of the fashionably conscious of Paris and Christine was overwhelmed when she first realized each one was meant exclusively for her. Her hand touched dress after dress, searching for a particular green one when her hand stopped on an elegantly embroidered, pure-white gown.

It was not a wedding gown, but it brought up images of one from a lifetime ago.

_A lake, a cavern, and a song so beautiful, she might die from bliss. She could not remember her name or why she was here, all that mattered was the ethereal voice beckoning her to let go…just let go. _

Then her face, lifeless and sitting atop a perfect wedding gown…

And then darkness…

As Christine fingered the trim of the dress, determination surged through her body. She wanted answers.. no, she needed them. Neither of them could go on pretending nothing had happened or that nothing would. The only way this sordid relationship would ever mend was if she heard an explanation for his numerous deceptions and her wary conscious admitted he deserved a heartfelt apology for her betrayal.

Forgetting the green dress, Christine donned her dressing gown and fled her room, barely securing her sash. She followed the sound of the Organ and found him with his back to her at the bench. Her heavy footsteps alerted him of her presence and he turned to her on his seat. Delaying would do no good and if she did not confront him immediately, she feared she would lose her courage.

He blinked when he saw her, but she didn't know if it was from the wild look in her eyes or her state of undress. She hoped it was the former.

"Erik, I-" her words cut off at the sound of a loud bell.

She watched his face change from confusion, to understanding to sheer menace.

"Precautions, Christine. I believe we have a visitor."

From the ordinary looking door, Christine heard the painful cry of Raoul.

"Christine!"


	3. Of Quiet Birds in Circled Flight

A/n: Title for this chapter comes from _  
I Did Not Die_ by Melinda Sue Pacho

* * *

**Chapter #3  
Of Quiet Birds in Circled Flight**

Was this what it felt like to die?

Your heart beat slows to a dull knock against your chest…the blood tears at your veins from newly frozen shards…and the very air you breathe chokes out your life with every breath?

Christine did not want to die, not now, not when life had just begun to taste so sweet. But she felt it all around her. Raoul's anguished cries, unstifled by the thick walls, a room adorned with a gentle fireplace feeling as cold as a tomb, and Erik's dramatic eyes as cold and unfeeling as lead, mocking her on her way to her deathbed.

Maybe twenty years from now, after she had her fill she could close her eyes and sleep peacefully. She did not want to die, but she feared she was close.

_Simply a precautions, my dear. _

Precautions?

In case we have any visitors.

Neither had moved since she burst into the room on the wings of her nerve. Their eyes locked battling each other for dominance, but Christine knew he would not make the first move. Whatever twisted game he played was at its peak and, once again, Christine decided their fate. But she would be damned if she played by his morbid rules.

"Where is he?" she demanded. He cocked his head and gazed at her as if she spoke in another language. "Erik, don't patronize me! Where have you hid him?"

His brow narrowed.

"I have done nothing, my dear. But it seems your precious Vicomte does not know when he's beaten."

She could sense the sincerity in his tone as well as the malevolence, but Raoul was still crying out in agony, trapped and at Erik's mercy. Her friend's life was in his capable hands and he gave her his back, signifying his indifference and the end of the conversation to him.

Christine had so little experience with this man. As her angel, she needed only to sing and he helped fulfilled her dreams of glory. Now, Raoul's life lay in her ability to sway a very unstable man, whom she knew nothing about.

"Tell me where he is," she implored.

"It seems he has wondered into the forest," he said over his shoulder like he was discussing the location of a building. "You should tell him it's not hunting season, though the silly fop forgot his gun."

_A cast-iron tree, her own confused reflection, and an endless stretch of forest. _

But she had passed through it unscathed. Aside from the fifteen foot drop and their dubious embrace, it was perfectly harmless, if not eccentric.

_So was an ordinary rope_, a voice whispered in her head. _But in Erik's hands, a silly piece of catgut transforms into a nightmare.  
_  
"Erik, what's going on?"

He heaved a sigh of frustration and paged through his scores. Some his own, some not and to the untrained eye, they were a mess of muddled markings set on staved paper. To him, they were beauty, power and the only thing in his life that made any sense. He noticed the pages were completely out of order.

"Your young man has wondered into one of my traps, you see. Though I like to think of them as precautions to leave me in peace. Obviously, he seeks to free you from my deadly clutches and whisk you back into sunshine and respectable society.

"Very noble, boy," he called over her shoulder. "Though you lose points for lack of foresight. That's the trouble with youth, Christine, all passion and no brains."

Christine tightened the knot on her dressing gown. He acted so cold. Where was the broken man who begged her to share his life?

"I see my humor is lost on you, but no matter. Come," he said, extending his hand, "I'll show you where he is."

To touch him now while Raoul suffered unknown torture would be a betrayal of the worst kind. Yet seeing no other alternative, she allowed Erik to lead her through his house, like lovers on a moonlit stroll and stopped before a very familiar, very ordinary looking door.

"Through this door is your Vicomte, Christine, probably raging at the sound of my voice."

Raoul cried from the other side of the wall. "Why you ugly son-of-a-"

"Do shut up, boy. Such language is hardly becoming of a nobleman. Now, you are wondering, 'How could a forest be deadly?' Aside from the occasional mountain lion, you would be right, Christine, they are relatively harmless. And no, I do not have a mountain lion. Ayesha would make its life unbearable, I assure you."

He chuckled. "Again, I see my jokes are in poor taste."

Raoul gave another cry and Christine, desperate to do _something_, threw herself against the door. She jumped back when she felt the walls were not rich Mahogany or mortar, but something stronger, something that burned.

She watched in horror as her arm turned a ghastly shade of pink. "Erik, it's so hot!"

"Didn't I tell you? This is a _Persian_ forest. Terribly hot and not very forgiving to evening suits of a gentleman. Here, have a look." He pressed a hidden mechanism on the mantel and stepped aside. A section of paneling moved and Christine recoiled from blinding white lights. "Really, my dear, he's not that ugly."

For as long as she had known him, Raoul had always been the picture of male beauty. As a boy, he was beautiful soaking wet running into the sea for her scarf. As a young man, he grew into looks of an Adonis , the envy of every man and woman he knew and often, Christine wondered what a man like him saw in someone as plain as her.

But not now.

His fine coat lay off to the side near the mirrors along with his tie and shoes. The shirt hung open and a nasty coat of sweat covered the exposed skin. His beautiful hair stuck out in all directions, and Christine almost corrected Erik about the lion. His eyes were wild, and from they way they darted around him, she knew his mind was fading. He ran from wall to wall seeking a means of escape from the artificial forest, only to recoil as Christine did when he touched the burning surface. The cast iron tree sat motionless in the middle of the room, like a pillar of death with a lasso hanging from one branch. Bile rose in Christine's throat.

"Let him go," she said, hoping her voice would convey more strength then she felt

"Let him go? I did not capture him in the first place. The fool wandered in on his own. One never needs to welcome uninvited guests, Christine, merely dispose of them."

"I am here with you and I'll stay, why make him suffer?"

Erik grabbed her by the shoulders and shook until her until the teeth rattled in her head.

"Suffer?" he snarled. "Do not speak to _me_ of suffering, _my dear_. Is this all a game to you? Submit to my loathsome touch just to save the boy? Are there teams of gendarmes descending right now, Christine, waiting to shoot me like a dog so you can finally escape and run away with the boy? Is that your game?…No? _Then what is!_"

Tears burned Christine's eyes as she tried to swallow them and they trailed down her cheeks, wetting her neck. It was hopeless, utterly hopeless. Erik was on the verge of strangling her, and Raoul would die too if he had not already, she stopped hearing his cries some time ago. Either choice she made, she could not win. Nothing she could do would remedy this melee.

"You don't trust me," she sobbed. "I gave you my voice, my mind, is not my word enough?"

He squeezed her shoulders and her eyes met the cold dead eyes of the Phantom of the Opera mocking, menacing,… pleading?

"Words from you, Christine, are dead air."

Words were all she had. How else could she convey her soul if not with the beauty of her of her god-given voice? It had brought her her angel, now it would take him away.

But you never had him, foolish girl, it was only another illusion you let yourself believe.

This was no illusion and at the end of the night, there could be two deaths if she did not do something about it.

"If not my words, Erik, then at least trust my mouth."

Before he could question her, she brought his lips to her own.

_Yes_, she thought as her mind left her, _this was what if felt like to die_.


	4. Another Lesson

**Chapter #4  
Another Lesson**

For three days, Christine saw no trace of Erik. It might have been hours, for all she knew. Time had no meaning in the house beyond the lake and every passing minute was the same as the last. If the grandfather clock in the parlor did not ring the hour, she would have thought time stood still.

In a way, it did and it had stopped the moment she kissed him.

She often looked back on her actions for answers, ignoring her reactions, and found any assessments worthless. Maybe she did it because she could not hear Raoul behind the door anymore. Or perhaps she wanted to prove all Erik's biting accusations were unfounded, that she could grant compassion the way he did pain. There was something wonderfully romantic about self-sacrifice, and part of her longed to share her generosity to a friend over tea and biscuits. As it was, she would content herself with the knowledge that Raoul was miles away in his comfortable home, nursing a broken heart while Christine graciously remained here. 

_Liar Liar…_

On that night, Christine crushed his lips to hers with a bruising intensity. Any gasp or sound from him was drowned out from the blood roaring in her ears. His hands lay paralyzed at his sides, and she wrapped her own around his neck, beckoning him closer. She slipped into an ocean of light and sensation, color so bright and glorious, warming her whole body. Then darkness, so beautiful in its intensity and it beckoned her to follow. Just let go…

And when he buried his hand in her mussed curls, matching her passion, it all became painfully clear. This was why! It was right in front of her all along, god, how could she have not seen?

Desire as she had never felt coiled at the base of her being, throbbing, demanding, hurtling towards a blinding conclusion she did not understand and she feared it as a threat to her life. Still she followed, the end within her grasp, possibly the end of all she knew. So beautiful, so wonderful, how could she resist? Just let go…

He did not meet her gaze when they parted, though Christine's never left his form. No reason, no logic could penetrate her mind. There was only his lips and she felt she would die if she did not feel them again.

"Fetch some water," he said, breaking her from her reverie. "You remember where the kitchen is, right? In the cabinet are several mugs. Fill the largest one with water, he'll need as much as he can get."

Christine blinked in confusion. She must have misheard them, there was no one their but the two of them. Nothing like that could have happened with another person present.

Erik slid the paneling shut to the torture chamber.

_Raoul_! Her momentary bliss came crashing down as she remembered her poor child-hood friend. He had been suffering, possibly dying in that room of mirrors while she and Erik…

"Christine, go now!"

His tone left no room for disobedience and Christine's feet carried her off to the kitchen before she could think to protest.

Erik's kitchen was immaculate, beautiful, spacious, and precisely organized, an icon to the culinary arts and yet the bloody jug still evaded her. Christine refiled through drawers, cabinets, upsetting various utensils in a futile search for something for Raoul to use to drink out of. Because Raoul had almost died for her, yet she could not remember why he had come.

In a way, the kiss had achieved its goal. Erik appeared calm and showed no more desire to play angel of death, but everything else lay in chaos. When she returned to the parlor, Raoul might very well be dead, or worse, he could be alive and Erik could kill him again. She still did no know what he would with Raoul and worse, she did not know what he would do with her. She was his now, not his student, but his property like the organ, or Ayesha, though she liked the idea of the organ better then the cat.

Raoul's body lay splayed over a couch when she returned. At first Christine thought Erik had left them alone, possibly to say goodbye, but she saw him against a wall on the opposite side, his eyes fixed on the young nobleman. Raoul lay so still on the couch and Christine feared Erik might have given into his executioners instincts and simply killed him. The thought should have terrified her, but she found herself oddly detached, like she a specter to pitiful actions, instead of a leading participant.

Christine knelt next to the couch and placed her hand on his forehead. He was not sweating, but his clothes clung uncomfortably to his body and she could see the eyeballs moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Raoul groaned and turned away from her hand.

"Raoul, sit up," she commanded. The young man's eyes fluttered open, blue orbs lost in a sea of pain, then they focused and found her face near the side of the couch.

Raoul leaned towards her and squeezed the hand she offered. "Christine? A-are you alright?"

Christine squeezed back and Raoul broke off in a fit of coughs. She looked to Erik for some kind of guidance, but her tutor stood as motionless as the victim, watching the proceedings like a comedy.

"Don't try to talk, just drink this." She held the water to his mouth and Raoul gulped down a generous sip.

"But how did you-" his eyes shifted to the figure against the wall. "You bastard, what have you done to her?"

Erik quirked an eyebrow.

It was an inappropriate time to blush, but Christine did anyway. Not too long ago, Meg had courted a young assistant to Joseph Bouquet named Pierre and through ballet gossip and Meg's own testimony, Christine learned much about what happens during courting. She had found herself jealous of her friend's gazes filled with longing, stolen kisses behind the curtains, and caresses not meant to be seen by her envious eyes. Madame quickly put an end to the affair, but there were still a few times Meg returned from the flies with swollen lips and red marks lining her neck. Christine could only imagine what she looked like after Erik's caress.

Raoul made a move to sit up, but Christine easily pushed him down.

"Please don't move," she begged. "You'll only do yourself harm."

Christine heard a small snort of amusement from behind her, and grudgingly admitted Erik's humor was not unfounded. If she, a former ballet-rat, could easily overpower a young man in his prime, what chance did Raoul stand against Erik? He had already lost.

Raoul lay on the cushions, fuming alone in his anger, until he became aware of his surroundings. There were no harsh lights, cast iron trees, or torture devices in sight, but a richly decorated parlor complete with lush tapestries, a welcoming fireplace, and furniture to entertain on weekends. No finer room could be found even in the Cheatu de Chagny.

"Where am I?" he asked and Christine nearly winced.

She had learned there are thigns best left unknown. Once, Christine had overstepped her boundaries by betraying Erik's existence and the consequences were laying half dead in front of her. She did not know what she could betray of Erik's secrets and the threat of more retaliation made her head hurt. Luckily, Erik spoke for her.

"You are in my home, boy, uninvited, unannounced and certainly not welcome."

Shooting up from his seat, all of Raoul's weakness seemed to vanish. "And I suppose you extended a cordial invitation to Christine before you dragged her down here? What kind of person keeps a room of death in their home, if you're one at all?"

Erik smirked, a low grin like a cat before the pounce. "Fortunately it is none of your concern."

Once again, Christine could feel the situation spinning out of control. She looked to Raoul for calm, but as always, he plowed ahead, heedless of anything but his own purpose.

"It is my concern when you kidnap _my_ fiancée to feed some twisted obsession, you monster!"

Erik took a step forward and despite his resolve, Raoul shrunk under the intense gaze. Any lingering amusement or mockery on Erik's part was gone now and Raoul wondered if this was how often Christine felt like this as his pupil. Erik raised a threatening finger and pointed it at the Raoul's flushed neck, free from a the hangman's mark.

"Just remember, boy, if Christine hadn't asked for your sniveling little life so nicely, your hide would be swinging from my tre-"

"Enough!" Christine shouted.

Both men stared at her and Christine almost laughed at their gape-mouthed expressions, though she swore she could see amusement in Erik's eyes.

"Erik, give us a few moments." He made no move to leave. 'You have my word. I'm not going anywhere."

He did not trust her, not now, probably not ever, but Erik dropped his hands to his side and nodded. He glanced quickly to Raoul the voiceless message was clear. _Try anything, _he warned_, and you'll be back in my forest!_

Turning slowly, Erik nodded to her again, then quit the room. When they were alone, Raoul was the first to speak.

"Don't tell me you mean to stay," he said, like she had told a very bad joke.

Christine gazed helplessly at her hands and fought back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her again.

"I gave my word, Raoul," she whispered. A hand came down on her shoulder and roughly spun her to his face. It was still flushed, but not from the heat.

"You gave your word that you would be my wife! What of that, Christine? Does a promise to him mean more then one to me?" his voice was laced with anger and an odd tone of resignation, like he already knew his cause was lost.

She had promised the rest of her life by his side as his wife, his lover, and his friend. She had filled all those roles to him in the stolen moments of their secret engagement and they had been some of the happiest moments since before her father died. A part of her still burned to fulfill that vow. But even when the engagement ring laying trustingly over her heart, she could not make Raoul see she had given Erik something a long time before, and once it was given, it could not be taken back.

"Please don't make this harder then it already is." From the folds of her dressing gown, she produced the beautiful engagement ring. The gems once winked with the promise of young love and a happy future that was theirs for the taking, but now the gems dully absorbed the candlelight. She pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers over the ring.

For a moment, he stared at his hand not believing it had happened and wishing it all to go away. A future, a life he had wanted fought so hard to make happen, lay in his hands. A dream was shattered by the person he had hoped to share it with.

"I was right wasn't I?" he said, his eyes never leaving his fist.

"What do you mean?"

He looked up and gave her a sad smile. "That night on the roof, I said you loved him. You do, don't you?"

She remembered that night well. It was the first time she let him kiss her, the first time he told her he loved her, the first time she realized her life was out of her control. She had been outraged when he accused her of 'love of the most exquisite kind' but unable to deny it. She found it true now.

"I don't know," she admitted and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

He took her hand from her ear and brought the other into his grasp. Silently, he ran his fingers over the digits as if imprinting them forever in his mind. He felt his heart clench in his chest as he realized memory was all he would have of her from now on.

"I should have known. You're not my little Lotte anymore."

Through her tears, she smiled.

"I don't think I ever was, Raoul. It was just a story, nothing real." Perhaps if she had believed it, she could have been his wife by now.

He drew her into his arms one last time. If he could not give her his heart, if he could not give her himself, then at least he could give her this, alone, without a masked man marring their happiness.

"You'll always be to me," he planted a kiss on her forehead. "Don't ever forget that…Little Lotte…"

When had she started to cry? In the parlor? On the stage? Her whole life? The tears ran freely now, down her checks, wetting her dress, and she let them. Someone should cry for the death of her childhood, and it might as well be her. She seemed to be the only one to mourn it.

As she watched Raoul pool away in the gondola, the tears continued to fall, but remorse she felt seemed to disappear with the strokes of the oar. Maybe she could blame it on destiny, but what was done was done, now she had to live with her choice.

Christine lingered on the lakeshore long after Raoul rowed out of sight and Erik stayed with her, never speaking only watching, waiting. He was only a few feet away yet the distance seemed to stretch on forever. _An eternity of this, indeed_, she thought bitterly.

Finally, Christine sighed and turned to him. She still had no answers and the questions doubled from the kiss. She wanted to know and dreaded the answers as well.

"It's been a long day, Christine," he finally said. "You should go to bed."

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into his home.

And that was the last time she saw him.

His absence did not bother her at first. Silence was a relief compared to the last few months and she was glad to enjoy a simple life, if only for a short while.

She amused herself by exploring his vast library or singing at the piano with her own poor accompaniment. Occasionally, she would take walks along the murky lakeshore or admire the exotic treasuring throughout his home. The beautifully made home fascinated her, and she could spend hours in one exploring or sitting quietly with a book. She avoided the room with the torture chamber.

But as the days mounted and she still had no sign of him, her brief reprieve began to feel like a prison sentence. She still went about her usual routine, but without another person to speak to, she had to turn to her thoughts for comfort. And she found it less comforting the less rational her thoughts appeared after each lonely day.

She missed him. Maybe she only wanted another human to relate to, but she missed his silent presence,and she missed his voice as it had sung her to sleep. If he meant her to stay with him, shouldn't that mean he wanted to spend time with her as well? As her solitude stretched into its fifth day, she found it was a question she could not ignore.

She ate her noon meal when she thought it was noon, and felt she would go mad if she stayed like this. Over her vegetable stew, she resolved that the only way to find Erik was to draw him out and his only weakness, save his music, was his anger. The two together could bring her powerful tutor to his knees.

The ornate organ sat in the music room, collecting dust like any other useless furniture. Most of her lessons had been conducted at the piano and she only heard him play the organ twice. Once, before she ripped off his mask, the other… she still blushed from that memory. Even with a diamond studded cat collar, this was by far his most prized possession and he guarded it like gold.

Christine smirked. It was perfect.

She sat at the organ, first gently running her hands over the white keys. Then, she pressed the keys, the buttons, the switches, anything that was manipulate under her finger. Her touch became less intimate, more demanding and she pounded out a harsh melody, grinning as she set the instrument horribly out of tune. With one foot, she pumped rigorously on the pedal, then switched to the other. To her dismay, she found it would not go down as far as the right. She leaned more force into her toes, but it did not give. With a cry, she pushed all her weight onto the left foot until the pedal sank beneath her.

She expected some of groan of protest or loud smash from the abuse, but instead, she heard the sound of wood sliding over stone as a section of the wall lifted and moved to the side.

Christine gasped. The air held a kind of impenetrable secrecy, like a tomb only the foolish would enter. She stood up and looked in; it looked just like any other doorway in the house, but she still felt her heart drop down to her stomach.

It should have come as no surprise that a home would contain as many secrets as the man who built it. Yet there was something tragic about the hidden paneling, and a doorway trigger by a paddle, like he did not feel secure in his own sanctuary. And here she was, candelabra in hand, crossing the door's threshold, seeking to compromise the haven of her wayward captor. Never mind how abandoned she had felt a minute ago, this was wrong. She felt the same trepidation in the moments before she exposed his face and like that time, there was no going back.

The candles offered very little assistance. She could vaguely made out a table, covered in papers and assortments of black ribbon, but little else. The air held a heavy scent of dead roses and decaying candle smoke.

Christine started when her eyes made out a figure in the dark.

"H-hello?" she called, her heart pounding in her chest.

The figure stood several inches below Erik's impressive frame and it's clothing shone against the darkness like a beacon. Closer she came, gaze fixed on the figure until her eyes accepted the dark and she recognized her own lifeless face atop a wedding gown.

A wedding dress made for a solitary bride.

Christine sighed and touched the silky material of the gown.

A million rational thoughts or outraged emotions should occur to her as her pale and waxy face gazed back at her behind the gauzy veil. Outrage, maybe, or thinly veiled horror to discover this testament to a twisted obsession lay not thirty feet from her bedroom. But she gazed into the lifeless eyes, feeling nothing but pity and mild resentment.

"Let him have his secrets," she said to the doll, " but leave me out of them."

Feeling new determination, Christine turned on her heel… right into a living body. A face she had not seen in days was etched anger and Christine gasped, dropping the candelabra and plunging them all into blackness.

There is a legend, or a story, of demons released into the world of the living. They walk among people, inconspicuous living normal lives under the light of the sun, but when in dark, their true nature is revealed.

The yellow eyes glared at her through the dark, and no matter how she ran, they would always be with her.

God help her, she was far closer to hell then she was to heaven.

Christine felt hot breath on her neck as he growled, "It seems Pandora has not learned her lesson."


	5. The White Flag

_A/N: I don't like Phantom of Manhattan any more then I like paper cuts, but the name Antoinette just fit a bit easier._

**Chapter #5  
The White Flag **

* * *

If Madame Giry was worried about the disappearance of one of her former students, she gave no sign. Ballet dancers left all the time, some for love, some for love gone too far, and some simply vanished off the stage during a performance. It was nothing she had not seen in her years, nothing that would not happen again come next season and just as she would now, she would never voice her opinion on the matter. To Madame, Christine's disappearance was inevitable, Meg treated it as if her best friend had died. Under the circumstances, Madame could almost agree with her, the girl was gone and it did not look like she was coming back.

The Paris opera house was certainly no heavenly sanctuary and her own students were a testament to that fact. Still, life in these walls was sheltered and while the normal norms that dictated society had their standing with the performers and stagehands, they could be bent, and ignored if need be with few consequences if things were handled delicately. She turned a blind eye to lustings in the hallways and the respectable patrons snatching up mistresses while their wives waited at home with the children. As long as the men funded productions and the parties involved remained quiet, there was no need to consider the consequences and even when they could not be ignored, silence saved reputations.

Madame knew this like her own name having come from a small town outside of Paris, but Meg had been here her whole life and to her, this was the world. The young Giry understood her mother's single standings was not becoming to a woman of her age, though being a widow was far more respectable. But Meg had never known that her own existence might have kept her mother from a decent job or ultimately bring her death before her thirtieth year.

Meg would never know as long as she lived, but that did not mean she did not wish her daughter was more prepared for life's cruelties.

"You wanted to see me, messieurs?" the two managers looked up from paperwork to see her in their office doorway.

"Ah, Madame Giry," Andre greeted her in his over-enthusiastic style. "How is little Meg?"

She could smell forced formality a mile away and she sincerely doubted the management cared abut her daughter's wellbeing as long as she dance, but she grinned politely over her annoyance and shut the door behind her.

"As well as can be expected," she replied dryly.

Meg had spoken the first night after the performance, begging her mother to take her below, _anything_ to get Christine back from that monster. She refused and Meg had not left her bed since.

"I'm glad to hear it. Won't you have a seat?" she thanked them and sat in one of the padded seats in front of the desk. The seat afforded her a descent view of the men, and the wall on the far end of the room.

She knew _he _was not there, not now with his hands tied up with Christine, but that did not mean she didn't wish him there to tell him exactly what she thought of him now.

_Come through that wall, I dare you, you coward!_ A curtain shifted in the breeze, but nothing more.

Madame arranged her skirts around the chair and fixed the closest man with a cold stare. "Am I correct in assuming, monsieur, that you summoned me on behalf of Christine Daae?"

Even after several months of being the woman's employer, her pointed insights on O.G's behalf still made Firmin nervous, especially when she used that glare reserved for disobedient dancers on him like he was a green-boy, but he smiled over his unease and adjusted his collar. It was only business, after all.

"Indeed, Madame. We are of course concerned over the ladies well being, but there is a mo-… another pressing manner." His partner cleared his throat and Madame raised her eyebrow at the slip.

"As you can understand, if we could have avoided this entire ordeal, we would have," her narrow eyebrow went up even more. "This man has been nothing but trouble since we arrived. I know I need not mention the more unpleasant aspects. He has even managed to drive away Senora Guidicelli."

She failed to see the tragedy in that Carlotta's early retirement. It had only been a week, but the constant ringing in her ears from the diva's shrieks had stopped. Still, it meant a loss of a fan base, and they were like rapid dogs if anyone dared mess with their leisure pursuits.

"It's enough to drive a man to drink, you see," Andre commented taking over for his partner. "We would like nothing more then to forget this madman or dispose of him by any means possible, but after that damned performance, we could not even if we wanted to."

Madame Giry tried to ignore the sinking feeling of dread forming in her stomach and the continued shift of the curtain on the wall.

"Go on," she said.

Andre picked up a bill with the world _Don Juan Triumphant _etched in red over a dark exterior, under it, the letters OG dwarfed the other markings on its surface. "It pains me to say it, but this 'Don Juan' of his is a hit. People are clamoring our offices to see it and several patrons are threatening to pull funding if it is not performed again."

"Even the Vicomte?" she asked. Funding of the opera never really concerned her so long as she had enough money to pay for her daughters ballet shoes, but the de Changy's were the opera's greatest patrons and the loss of their funds would spell ruin for anyone connected with the house.

Firmin shook his head, relief apparent despite his short temper. "No one has seen the Vicomte since that night and we have had no indication he means to pull out. But I take it you're aware of the financial strain this ghost has put on us and we simply cannot afford to lose any more patrons."

"I'm afraid I do not follow, monsieur," though she had an idea where this was going. "You'll have to explain what this had to do with me."

Andre glanced at his partner shifted uncomfortably in his chair, obviously reluctant to play the part of informer. His partner made no move to relieve him.

"Well, quite frankly, you have something of a connection with this O.G, Madame. The letters, the requests have all come to us by your hand," and he said it with more then a little accusation in his voice. "We were hoping you might persuade him to allow us to stage his opera again."

Madame Giry said nothing at first. She regarded each man for a moment like they had asked her to fly out the window, then threw her head back and laughed. Any shock Andre had at her uncharacteristic display of emotion quickly gave way to contempt.

"Your humor is in poor taste, Madame," Andre said wryly.

She looked like her bubbly daughter instead of the stoic ballet mistress with her cheeks rosy, and her face flushed with tears. Her entire body shook with the force of her laughter that might almost be charming, had it not been for such dismal reasons. She could not remember the last time she laughed so hard.

Her voiced quivered through her chuckles, "This situation is nothing but humorous, Monsieur Andre. Did I not warn you that you cannot win? You will do well to forget about that opera and stage another. Send to England and see if you can persuade one of their diva's to come, or close the opera for the rest of the season. I'll say it one more time for your sake, god have mercy, this is a game you _will not_ win."

Andre's face flushed an impressive purple.

"_A game_!" he roared leaning over, the desk the only barrier between them. "I can assure you it is anything but. If you value a roof over your daughter's head and a steady income, a life, for Christ's sake, you'll take this very seriously."

There was an undertone of intended violence and Madame Giry felt her temper rise under the challenge. She would take suggestions on ballet procedures, but she would never allow anyone to challenge her place as mother.

Madame stood upright and drew herself up to her full height, which was rather impressive compared to the squat frame of Monsieur Andre. "Believe me, I do. Yet I cannot believe educated men such as yourself could be so blind. He has what he wants," and she felt guilty for admitting that. "What could he possibly gain from this?"

It was a hard truth that they had nothings more too offer him that he could not simply take, or find another means of supply. The cooperation of the pervious Monsieur LeFerve, and their more recent attempts to win his good graces afforded him the change to buy the opera house several times over. Everything they owned in this opera was only maintained through his good graces, and it had taken them nearly a year of management to finally learn.

Firmin ungentlemanly slumped his shoulders, and said barely loud enough for her to hear, "We cannot give him what he already has. But we are willing to give him his peace."

The two managers eyed her warily. In the course of all that happened, she felt they had acted foolishly all to save their pride. Many disasters could have been avoided if they had simply submitted to his will. But she also knew how farfetched the idea of an opera ghost could be that that Erik was ruthless in his demands. They had not learned this lesson gracefully, but learned they had, and Madame almost felt herself pity the former junk dealers even if she still resented them.

"We are willing to leave him be," Andre continued. "We will submit to his wishes and salary and not seek him out provided his demands are reasonable and no one is found at the end of a rope."

Madame Giry did not move, but Andre could see some of the hardness leave her eyes. "You would do well to remember much could have been avoided with your consent in the first place."

"Perhaps," he said thoughtfully and stroked the stubble on his chin. "But we are waving the white flag here, Madame. This business rests in his hands."

A white flag, meant for peace? Or defeat? At this point it no longer mattered, it was raised.

"I assume this will call for the triumphant return of Mademoiselle Daae?" Madame finally asked and they nodded. It was a long shot, and everyone in the room knew it, but for now, they were content to hope. "I will do my best, messieurs. He has not contacted me in some time and I do not know if your offer will sway him. But I will let him know, for all our sakes."

Firmin rose from his seat and extended his hand. "I thank you, Madame."

She took his hand in her own and for once was genuine to the mangers when she said, "You're welcome."

She did not return to her rooms after her meeting. The thought of Meg turning over in her bed to avoid her mothers gaze was off-putting and Madame Giry chose instead to linger on the stage of the opera house as her mind settled on the new events.

She had claimed the title of prima ballerina on this very stage in her youth, some odd years before. Her graceful pirouettes and arabesques had brought all of Paris to their feet and the young woman, not believing in the sin of pride, basked in their praise. From the moments she graced the stage, she held the world's heart in her hands, to deal with as she wished and she wished for their complete devotion. She received it in spades.

Antoinette Giry had always been a woman of sound mind, but there was a time when she possessed a bubbly nature to rival even Meg's. She smiled to herself as she wondered how her pupils would react if they knew the woman who drilled them to exhaustion on their forms had been the first to lead a team of giggly ballet rats into the haunted cellars.

She did not fear the dark as her peers, they followed her because she could easily bend their wills and they wanted new stories to tell the others before bed, but Antoinette found it mysteriously comforting. And it was on a night like this when she came to mourn the death of her beloved Serge that a voice first spoke to her.

He had called himself simply Erik and told her he would need her assistance. For her deeds as well as her silence, he would help secure a permanent position in the opera to ensure the future of her unborn child.

Antoinette had not known she was pregnant.

Many of the ornate stage props of Don Juan were still out in some form of disarray. The metaphorical bridge had not been resuspened since Erik cut the rope and the tissues used to for fire littered the stage like the streets during Mardi Gras. A scene loaded with sexual innuendo and dark symbolism reduced to a party scene, she found the idea hilarious.

This was how she usually met him to receive his instructions and she almost expected his voice to cut through the silence with a sarcastic retort on the state of her clothes. But she had not heard from him in a week and she doubted he needed her now or ever again.

If it were just her to worry about, she would walk out of the theatre immediately, hang her job. She had enough notoriety to secure a potion at any opera in Europe or anywhere else for that matter. But Meg was on the verge of achieving international fame, and there was no better place to receive the title of prima then the Garnier. She would never admit it to the management, although she felt they suspected, but she was as tied to this houses destiny as they were.

And although she sometimes regretted it, the safety of the two in the house on the lake was in her hands as well. Despite Erik' dangerous reputation, there was no guarantee of his safety. Now that the world knew he was a living breathing man, curiosity or even revenge, she thought of images of Senora Carlotta among them, may encourage anyone to seek him out. Erik was a genius, not invincible. Christine had proved that.

In her gut, Madame, knew Christine was in no physical danger and she admired the girl for her strength. But she was also young, inexperience and had a tendency to daydream away her troubles. The older woman suspected what was happening between the two a long time, but Christine did not posses the experience or wisdom she did.

There was also the question of Erik's feelings for her. He was aware of their existence, she doubted he understood their depth. And past experience told her any attempts by himself to understand or seek reciprocity form Christine could shatter the only light in his life.

She was bound by honor, and a small amount of pity for his happiness. Madame owed the wellbeing of her daughter to him. He would rebuke her advice for pride's sake, but he would hear it, nonetheless.

Antoinette made her way back to the apartments she shared with her daughter. God willing, she would have a clear enough head to do what she needed to do.

When she opened her door, Meg was out of bed and donning an evening cloak.

"Maman? Where have you been?" she asked, apparently the emotional illness had lifted and Madame was relieved to see it pass.

"Talking to the managers, my dear," she patted her on a rosy check. "Do you feel better?"

Meg beamed and gestured towards a large bowl left on the table. "Yes very much. I made some stew for you if you are hungry."

Without waiting for an answer, the girl made her way to the door and opened it.

"Meg, where are you going?" she asked, but she was already out the door when she heard her call:

"To see the Vicomte."


	6. There is a Season

**Chapter #6  
There is a Season**

* * *

Parisian weather was fairly predictable; summers were muggy, fall crisp, winters chilly, and springs glorious. A city dweller never experienced the changing seasons as the peasants out in the country; their very lives depended on nature's good graces. But even the smallest shifts were felt in Paris, altering lives and attitudes with subtle temperature drops and wind directions. They took it in stride as they did most things in their lives, current government notwithstanding, and they continued on with their lives as best they could.

The chill had grown day by day since mid-September and the few trees in the city changed from their usual dull green, to a fiery amber. Older folk clucked their tongues and claimed the winter would be just a fair one no doubt, and the younger people agreed with them. The masquerade on All Hollows Eve had been unseasonably warm allowing party goers to reveal a liberal amount of flesh without any scandal. No one could recall a gayer time in the capital city, until Red Death decided to make an entrance.

Meg hated rain in Paris like she hated her Maman's warm-ups. Both were long, unnecessary, and left her feet aching. Coupled with a wet dress and muddy ankles, Meg Giry was not in a good mood.

The few brave cabbies willing to risk their horses passed by her without a glance. A short-tempered granny elbowed in her roughly in the side, and a street urchin spit on her when she told him she had no money. She had been about to offer the boy her extra gloves for his tiny hands, but changed her mind when his spittle hit her on the cheek.

_Dirty little rat!_ she thought, rubbing her face with the back of her glove

Only one handsome cab stopped as she stood flailing her arms on the side of the road and he looked as desperate for money as she did a dry set of clothing. If the weather had been more agreeable, she might have walked the distance, if she stopped to think about what she was doing, she might have stayed home.

"Where to, mademoiselle?" the man croaked as she climbed in.

"The chateau de Chagny, please." It sounded as odd to say as she was sure it was to hear, but he said nothing more, and called to the horse.

The rickety wheels groaned under their weight as they surged forward, before lunging back with an audible thud. Meg tried to offer her own encouragement to the horse, but was promptly thrown back in her seat as it attempted another try.

"It'll just be another moment, mademoiselle. Come on, Donas, put your back into it!" The whip cracked against the beast's back and Donas brayed in protest. It rocked back and forth a few times, tossing Meg out of her seat. Finally, with another crack and a pull from the wretched horse, they moved free.

Meg sighed and relaxed back in her seat.

"What happens now?" she said out loud, her only answer was the wheels groaning beneath her feet.

Going to the Vicomte had felt like the right thing to do yet the purpose of her journey still felt odd to her. It should be incredibly simple; question the Vicomte, find out where Christine was, and then, rescue her from the hands of a madman.

While she was at it, she might as well declare herself empress.

The last time she had seen Christine was during the night of the performance with _him_, and it stood to reason that she was still in his clutches. If the management and her own mother would not help, her best friend's fiancé certainly would.

Meg watched outside her window as shabby buildings gave way to ornate mansions, and eventually, large estates graced the landscape. All were easily dwarfed by the magnificent building she called home, but these were made with care and artistry meant to impress rather then house. She recalled her mother telling her about sitting rooms, tearooms, and ones specifically made for ladies to faint in such homes.

Utter nonsense, her mother claimed, when one needed only one room to put a bed. She had agreed with her mother, now Meg only found herself intimidated.

A light tap on the roof of the carriage freed Meg from her thoughts.

"We're here," the driver said politely, but made no move to help her out.

A large, green puddle lay innocently at the foot of her path and Meg stretched her trained legs out to the far end to cross. The sidewalk was as unstable as ice, but she found her footing and straightened her petite frame with as much dignity as she could manage. The cabbie watched her in mild disbelief with his jaw hanging near the collar of his dirty shirt. Meg felt the corners of her mouth twitch in spite of herself, and she hid her laugh by digging into her pouch for her last few coins. She would worry about getting home later.

"You sure this is the right place, mademoiselle?" he asked while pocketing the money.

His answer was the sight of her retreating back.

Raising her chin, she marched up the stairs with as much poise as her tiny frame could muster, promptly ignoring the wheezing laughter of her driver as she drove down the street. All of her courage failed as she took in the magnificent splendor of the Chateau de Chagny.

The setting sun only added to is grandeur, as the roofs appeared to touch the sky. The family crest adorned the flat surface of the door, and glowed in the light like a testament to the de Chagny clan. Lush gardens spread out far beyond the estate and made it look like something out of a fairy tale. In the distance, the sound of tinkling water mixed with the songs of the evening bird and Meg clutched a hand to her chest as she realized this could have been Christine's to command.

And it would be, if Meg had anything to say about it.

_This is for Christine_, she reminded herself, _just think of Christine_.

"All for Christine," she muttered and raised the gilded knocker.

A bird called in the distance but there was no movement on the other side of the door. She thought perhaps she had done it wrong and she grabbed the handle to try again when the door swung open.

The outline of a short, squat little butler appeared in the doorway, filling the entire frame with his round stature.

"Are you lost?" he asked not bother into mask his disconcert. He was no taller then Meg, but he tilted his head back to look down at her through his nose. His waistcoat had been hastily thrown on when he heard the knock, and it looked like he regretted going through so much trouble.

"No-no, monsieur, I am here to see the Vicomte." She could feel his scrutiny and distaste running up the length of her body and Meg wished for the hundredth time she had a finer dress.

"The Vicomte is not seeing visitors. "Now go home, girl, before you catch your death."

At any other time in her young life, Meg would have run crying to her mother. But concern for her friend filled her with strength and she shoved her foot in to the doorframe. Summoning up all her courage, she pointed a finger into the man's face.

"You listen to me," she said and his eyes bulged in his head. "I am here to see the Vicomte on a very urgent matter. Now you go and tell him Mademoiselle Giry is here or I'll stand here and scream the whole house down!"

The butler had no time to react as the girl shoved past him into the foyer. Two young maids stood gap mouthed in the entranceway. She heard the butler locking the door behind her but did not bother to turn around. Meg eyed the young maids like bleeding gazelles and raised her hands in mock irritation.

"Don't stand there looking daft. Go and find the Vicomte!" her voice bounced off the walls and the maids scattered like cockroaches. She felt exhilarated in her power and wondered if this was how her mother felt with her ballet rats.

"You needn't ruin your voice, Mademoiselle, I'm right here."

Meg whirled around to see Raoul watching her from the doorway. The few times Meg had seen the Vicomte up close, had always been at the opera during a performance, official business, or the night of the masquerade. His appearance had always been impeccable from beautifully fitted suits, light shinning hair, and kind smile that made Christine the envy of every woman in the company. A true gentleman with animal lure, La Sorrelli had whispered to her, and she did not challenge her.

The person eyeing her in the doorway with a hint of amusement in his eyes was simply a man and nothing more. He had on worn trousers topped with a large, oversized shirt that did nothing to flatter his lean frame. His long, glossy hair was in disarray and standing on end, like he had run his hands through it several times. Angry red blood vessels stood out in his honey colored eyes and the black and blue marks surrounding them gave him the appearance of an abused dog. The only thing keeping the man upright seemed to be the frame of the doorway and she wondered how long the wood could support such sorrow. The man must have aged forty years since she had last seen him and while Meg had been regretting her look since she left, at least she know she looked alive.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," she curtsied, hiding her embarrassment. "Forgive my intrusion, but I need to speak to you about-"

"Jerome?" he cut her off suddenly and the squat man materialized at his master's shoulder.

"Yes sir?" The butler had regained some of his composer and straightened his jacket. He also resumed his habit of looking at Meg like she was a diseased rat.

Raoul did not bother to look at his servant, keeping his eyes on her only called over his shoulder, "I hope it's only age that makes you forget your duties. Take the lady's things and bring tea into the parlor."

Jerome nodded and stepped behind her waiting patiently for her to remove her cloak. The wet ties had been slowly choking her for the last fifteen minutes and her fingers fumbled to untie them. Once she was free, the butler snatched if from her hands scuttled away like a mad crab.

"Nasty toad," Meg muttered, usually her favorite swear.

Raoul made a sound that must have been a laugh, as the corners of his mouth twitched. "He is a rather stuck-up fellow. I would have dismissed him long again had he not been one of my father's favorite servants."

After he started frequenting the opera, Christine had told her that Raoul was an orphan just like her. It was common knowledge among ballet rats that the young man had to assume a great deal of responsibility at a young age to help the older Comte and he had joined the navy as a way to escape Parisian society. Most of her knowledge came from opera gossip, of course, but she could probably rely on Christine's word more the La Sorrelli's.

It was difficult to picture such a privileged young man encountering any hardship usually reserved for people from her world. And yet he had. She could almost picture a lost little boy, just told his parents had died and a broken young man, mourning the loss of the woman he loved.

"Come," he finally said extending his hand. "Let's go into the parlor so you can explain your late-night call."

Raoul tucked her arm under his and led her through the most lavish hallway she had ever seen. Paintings lined the walls of various landscapes owned by the de Chagny's and distant relations, all with the same aristocratic nose and light brown hair. A few of the maids Meg had scared to death dodged through the halls, closing the doors behind them as they hauled cleaning supplies. Meg nearly tripped as she was studying the profile of Aloysius de Chagny, Raouls two time great-grandfather, but Raoul caught her before she landed head first on the carpeting.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded and opened a random doorway. The room was as carefully decorated as the hallway only with a fireplace and several comfortable chairs for after-dinner conversation. Ever the gentleman, Raoul stepped aside and allowed her to enter first.

"That is a lovely painting," Meg ventured as she sat on one of the couches. "Is the little boy you?"

Raoul paused from pouring a glass of wine and looked up to his family's portrait.

"Yes, that's me. And the ugly one next to my mother is my brother Philippe," he laughed. "He's in Germany right now on business."

"They're all lovely," she said honestly. And indeed every single de Chagny was physical perfection. Each was as much a work of art as the painting itself. The late count and countess were beautiful themselves, but combined into their two children, they were stunning. Raoul was probably the fairer of the two, but whatever the Comte lacked in appearance, he made up for in his warm smile.

"Thank you, but I expect you are not here to talk about my family's beauty." Meg blushed. She had almost forgotten her mission in the splendor of his home and found herself tongue-tied. Fortunately, Jerome entered with their tea and she had a few moments to collect herself.

When the hostile butler left, Meg decided her best course would be the straight and narrow.

"I'm actually here on behalf of Christine." Raoul nearly dropped the teacup in his lap. Immediately he was at her side gripping the armrest and staring at her like a madman.

"What have you heard? Is she hurt?" he asked and Meg moved herself away from him.

"That is exactly why I'm here," she insisted. "No one has heard from her since the performance! Maman won't let me go below to look for her and I'm beside myself with worry. Please, monsieur, if you know anything tell me!"

The knuckles clutching the cushion were as white as the bone china in her hands and Meg feared either would crack at any moment. He eased his grip, however and walked over to the fire, staring into the burning log.

"I have seen her," he finally admitted and Meg dropped the cup.

"You have! Is she alright?" Forgetting the usually rules of propriety, she came up to the Vicomte and whirled him around to face her. The movement startled him and he lost his grip of something he had been holding in his hand, dropping into the fireplace.

Raoul cried out and reached out to retrieve the paper and Meg nearly tackled him before he burned himself.

"You _fool_!" she hissed. "You'll kill yourself, let me get it."

Before he could react, Meg grabbed the tongues from the side of the hearth and trust it into the flames. Part of the side was singed, but mostly intact. Meg pried it from the end of the tongs and handed the tool to Raoul while she batted out the flames. She turned it over to assess some of the damage and caught a few intact words on the surface.

_…duty to your country… African coast… ship awaits…_

Raoul took it from her and smoothed out the surface.

"Wha?" she swallowed audibly. "When?"

He gave her a tight smile and placed the paper on top of the hearth.

"Two weeks."

"But- you can't!" she insisted, sounding like a child.

"It's not a question of what I can do, mademoiselle. In this case, I fear I must." Rain was falling outside the window, the house was eerily silent.

"But.. what about Christine?"

"What about her?" he said bitterly. "She is as well as can be expected I suppose. _He_ will certainly make sure she comes to no harm. And I will be off, defending country and title. A very agreeable arrangement, if you ask me."

He sat back down on the couch, far enough away from the shards of the teacup so that Meg could come to kneel at his feet. From up close, she could see the stubble lining his perfect chin and the angry circles under his eyes. Any trace of Christine's dashing young lover was gone.

"Please," she begged, placing a hand near his. "Tell me what happened."

Raoul sighed and let all vestige of a Vicomte drain from him. He did not bother to sit up straight, or offer his guest more tea. He only looked up to the ceiling, trying to find the right words to describe the hell he had lived through two weeks ago.

"She-" and already his words failed him. "She did not tell me why and I don't think she knew either. It was as if … as if she decided this a long time ago and nothing would change her mind. Nothing."

Meg slipped to the side of the chair and laid her head on her arms as Raoul relayed his story. It felt completely unbelievable, like a heightened sense of reality or a cheaply penned comedy the managers never allowed in their theatre. As she sat at his feet, listening to the Vicomte's story, a memory of one of Christine's stories came to the forefront of her mind.

"…her father promised her," she whispered, almost afraid to shatter frail air.

Raoul stopped talking and leaned over towards her in his seat.

"What did you say?" he said matching her tone.

It made no sense to her yet it did. A promise made and a promise kept, no matter how sordid it had been carried out. She remembered when she and Christine were younger, and her friend was still grieving the death of her father to the point where she would almost make herself ill. Yet whenever she spoke her father's stories, her eyes light up, and the pain the little girl carried seemed to vanish. They had grown out of those stories, but Christine had never outgrown her grief. In the last few months, though, Meg had seen a new spark in her friend's eyes, that reminded her of happiuer time. But Christine did not need to speak of her angel like a fairy tale, because he was there.

Meg looked up to see the Vicomte watching her. The truth would only bring him more grief, yet in her heart she believed he had a right to know that nothing short of God could have stopped this.

"Her father promised her that he would send her the angel of Music," she repeated hoping he would not ask her to explain. "Her father promised her."

_What God has joined_, he thought, _let no man separate._

She leaned her head against the armrest and Raoul watched as her blonde tresses shifted and fell over the length of her shoulders. They dying embers danced over the locks like starlight and he gazed into them, silently absorbing their mystery. As he watched, he could see her eyes growing heavier as she fought against sleep. None of this had eased any of her fears, but she felt a sense of peace knowing what she did now. An angel or man held Christine captive, and she did not know which it was, yet it hardly mattered anymore.

"I should have known," Raoul admitted, waking her from her thoughts. "I was loosing before I even began."

She felt no need to contradict him. _Maman_ had once told her truth brings the healing even as it does the pain.

Meg reached out and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry to burden you. But I do thank you for your help. None of this has been easy on you I know."

He had been staring at her hand on his shoulder and looked at her, and gave her a small shrug. "I should thank you, mademoiselle. For a while, I did not know what to think of this, I still don't, but now I believe I understand, somewhat."

Meg smiled.

"Then you're far more perceptive then me, monsieur. I don't like it, but I feel I should take Maman's advice and leave this to themselves."

A maid materialized at the doorway and Raoul ordered her to have a carriage made for the Mademoiselle's safe return.

"It really isn't necessary," she insisted as he led her back to the foyer.

"Nonsense. Unless you enjoy walking two miles to the Opera house?" she let out a laugh and Raoul found he like the sound.

Outside, the carriage waited under a clear, starry sky. The winter's chill had returned and all around frost clung to the soggy surfaces, perfect like a diamond and just as pure.

A wayward Jerome helped held his hand out to her, but she hesitated and turned back to the Vicomte.

"Monsieur, I hope you will not avoid the opera house because of this. There are many who would love to see you there."

Raoul felt a spark of something akin to hope, fill his chest for the first time in months.

"Would that someone be you, mademoiselle?" he asked innocently, and was rewarded with a rosy blush. Jerome didn't bother to hide his distain as he helped her in the carriage.

Before the driver could signal the horses, Meg stuck her head out and called to the Vicomte.

"I know Maman would love to see you again, monsieur, but I would as well."

The cabbie took up his reigns, but Meg stopped him before they could leave. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to find words she was afraid to use.

Raoul could see her hesitate from the doorway, and offered a "Yes, Meg?"

She twisted a lock of hair furiously in her fingers and found her courage.

"I just wanted to say, she'll always love you, monsieur," Raoul felt his stomach drop. "I cannot speak entirely for her, but you have been an important part of her for so long, she'll carry you with her, always."

Everything was wet, she told herself. Everything was still damp from the rain, including the Vicomte's eyes.

Despite the chill and the damp, it was a beautiful evening. The air was clean and fresh to breath, and the virgin frost was as stunning as the stars above it.

He had stood under the stars on a night like this once, just as beautiful. He had laid his soul bare that night too, but unlike this night, he had promised himself to another.

_Say you'll love me… _

… you know I do…

Do vows end when one side breaks their word? No, not at all. He could not take back his heart any more then he could stop it's beating. He loved Christine, would love her the rest of his life, even if she was not there to return it. His brother had once told him sparks flare, but they take a long time to burn. And once they start, they do not stop until something stops them, or they consume themselves.

The Vicomte looked up to see Meg still watching him, worry written all over her face. She had a right to worry, but not on his behalf anymore.

He sighed and gave her one last painful smile. "I don't know if she'll willingly carry me now, mademoiselle, especially after all this. But I do take great comfort, knowing that she'll carry my ring."


	7. The Nature of the Agreement

**Chapter #7**  
**The Nature of the Agreement**

* * *

Christine had spent the last eleven years of her life in France, but to many she was still considered a foreigner. Sometimes, her almost flawless French would pulse with a long forgotten accent, or she would accidentally slip _tack_ into her speech instead of the usual _merci_. They were slight, and they happened only when she was overanxious, but they were proof enough that she was indeed the daughter of a Swedish violinist and so marked her as an _etranger_.

Yet she had not seen her homeland in so long, it was as exotic to her as any native Frenchman. Whenever she searched her mind for traces of her roots, sometimes she would find her mother, a pale, wide-eyed beauty with golden hair, or her father, plucking the strings of his violin trying to find the perfect pitch.

After they had left, she would sit for hours at her father's feet as he spun his tales about Sweden till the land itself was almost mythical. The forests on the boarders of the town hid nymphs and elves bent on carrying little children off who did not eat all their _kaldolmar_and just beyond the shoreline, the seas held monster so massive, her father explained, they could swallow an entire cabin whole.

There was love in these recollections of life and a family long gone to her, they comforted her even when recalling them was unbearable. They were always warm, with a sweet taste of summer lingering in the air but she knew from her father and several other lost Swedes, that her homeland was infamous for the ruthless winter months, and they gave the population a resilient edge, but she only had one memory of the legendary snow.

A tiny, baby hare limped pathetically in the snow. Mikael, the black smith's son, had set up several traps hoping to catch an elk, and the poor little thing had wondered too close. She wanted to catch it and take it home for splinting but even with its twisted leg, it stayed far ahead of her. The tiny creature moved slowly as it awkwardly jumped on one leg. She managed to get close enough to see the wild terror in its baby eyes, before the ice gave way and she plunged into the lake of Uppsala.

_"It seems Pandora has not learned her lesson."_

Terror enveloped her like that frigid water, starting at her feet, moving fast up her body and seeping into her heart. She could not see, she could not smell, she could not think. But she could feel her own fear, acute and sharp like knives raking over the surface of her skin.

Ten days… nearly ten days he had been gone with barely a trace of his existence. He left her with only her thoughts as company and they had begun to frighten her with their irrationality. Sunlight, for example, she craved it like air her first days of imprisonment and now she could not remember the feel of it on her on her face. But it hardly seemed to matter any more in the lair of the Angel of music. Angels did not need sunlight.

Christine could hear him moving somewhere in front of her, and she did not breath. One candle managed to stay lit after she had dropped the candelabra, but its poor light only warmed the heels of her boots instead of helping her to see. He moved close enough she could feel his breath on her neck and the erratic tremor of his heart. Still she did not move.

"Will you not face your guilt?" he mocked, making her feel like she was ten again. "I promise no matter how you shut your eyes, I will not go away…"

The caress of his last words made her shutter in irrefutable bliss and she unconsciously leaned into the sound of it. So long without the sound of his voice and she felt like an opium addict taking a hit after a long absence. He used this tone once to convince her he was an angel, then again to call her to the mirror. Now, as his voice wrapped around her like an embrace, he called again for her complete and utter submission.

_Believe in me and you will not die…_

…no…

_Give yourself to me…_

No…

_Let the dream descend…_

"NO!" she cried, she could not surrender her mind they way she had her voice, her own life.

She turned to face him the sound of his voice, and hoped she was looking him fully in the eyes.

"Where have you been?" Silence. "Will you not face _your_ guilt, Erik?"

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the light, but she could only make out vague shapes, and the shade of brighter colors. All the color of his exposed cheek drained to the same as the mask, then the visible corner of his mouth twitched and his face flushed an angry red. The part of her that was not terrified realized somehow she had shocked him, and the thought of it gave her more pleasure then his voice.

Always she submitted to him. It was almost laughable how easily he could get her to follow his voice, even in the simplest lullabies, but she certainly was not laughing now. He had no other means of controlling her other then her fear, but that had lessened with the discovery of his mortality. Once he would have given his soul to make her see the man he was except now he had invariably castrated himself.

He folded his arms against his chest working to regain the upper hand again. He had been thrown off guard when he discovered her in this room, but he had the advantage of surprise and he sought to use it while he still could.

"Perhaps you should explain why you are in here, my dear. Or you could enlighten me on the off-key nature of my organ?"

Beyond the secret doorway, Christine saw the organ with stacks of music scattered around the base, buttons and levers abused to unnatural positions. A bowl of her stew sat on top with a wooden spoon carelessly at its base, leaving a slimy trail on the delicate wood.

"You have no right to leave me here alone," she yelled avoiding his accusations with her own.

"I don't, do I?" He was quicker then anything, and before she could move, he twisted her wrist around her back. Her own fingertips hovered dangerously near the base of her neck and she could feel the bones straining beneath her skin, so very close to breaking, but not quite enough. Her breath came out in ragged bursts and the ease of his own mocked her. "It seems I forgot a few things when we started this little drama, my dear. But you must forgive me; I am no businessman, just a loathsome beast, aren't I? Yes, that's exactly what you're thinking right now, isn't it?"

She tried to move he twisted her arm higher up but the pain of it ran up and down her arm, centering on her wrist. She was completely at his mercy so she made no protest when his free hand hovered over the frail beat in her temple, moving along her cheek, and caressing the side of her exposed neck. He had touched her once like this before, on the night of the performance. His hands had lightly traced the veins in her neck like she was some kind of holy treasure, beautiful to see, but in danger of being shattered by those who touch it. He could shatter her now, if he wished, but it would not be out of reverence.

"You think I broke my word, but you did long before I, my dear." It was dark and tears blurred every object to being only partially visible. But in front of her eyes, she could see the long, graceful fingers of a musician and an aqua marine diamond held between the digits.

_"Please keep it, Christine, just as a reminder, of me, of us. Something he can never have."_

"It is my fault really," he hissed. "I forgot to explain everything, but you understand how your mind gets in front of all those people, my dear, stage fright and all. You see," he ran a nail behind her ear and she shuttered, "this is simply the nature of our agreement. You stay with me; you learn to live like me. You will know silence, you will bask in darkness, and you will live every moment of your life knowing you are truly… utterly… alone."

Angels did not need sunlight, perhaps she did not either.

She had to run, she had to flee; she had to leave before his words consumed her.

The part of her mind that was still primitive told her to fight back with all she had, and she gave into it. She twisted her arm, hoping to loosen his grip, but he only raised it higher and more tears sprung in her eyes.

Christine drew her other elbow forward, and brought it back into the base of his stomach. His hand let go of her wrist and she heard him gasp as all the air rushed out of his body. She did not let herself think about how gracefully he crumbled for such a tall man and turned towards the only source of light in the secret room.

Her hip connected with the table, upsetting the papers as they fell about the floor. He took his eyes from her for a moment and she used it to make a mad dash for the door. Her shoulder cracked against the hidden doorway and she stifled a cry as she tumbled back into the music room. She heard Erik move back in the room and she took off before he could follow her.

She passed through the kitchen, the dinning room, and the parlor tearing down furniture and statues of his home without a care. She had no destination in mind, but she knew she would go mad if she heard him speak again.

She could not run forever, but she ran as far as she could before she skidded to a stop in the darkest room in the house on the lake.

Erik lay doubled over in the ruins of the secret room. The engagement ring lay somewhere out of sight and dozens of papers lined the floor around his twisted body. Most of them were sketches of Christine in her private moments of times when she missed her father, when she watched the Vicomte from the back of the chorus line, or others when she listened for her angel.

Lies, all of it. Every one was a testament to his selfish drive to make her his own. He watched her from the shadows trying to capture the curve of her mouth or the arch of her elegant brow with his pencil when she cried. His time in between their lessons was spent studying her fiercely, trying to find what it was about her that called to his soul. Yet, in all his hours of obsessive study, he could never see the pain he inflicted on her. He was no angel, for angels saved. He was Erik and he only destroyed.

His had groped blindly in the dark for the blasted engagement ring and landed on his closest drawing. It was a rare depiction of Christine smiling at some nonsense little Giry had said to her and it had been so quick, he barely had time to grab a pencil before it was over.

Beautiful, happy, free.

In his wildest dreams, he never dared to hope she could want him, that she would spend the rest of her living days by his side. Her acceptance shocked him to the very core as he realized he had neither the physical nor the emotional means to keep her with him. She had exposed him for what he really was and at that moment, he nearly hated her for completely undoing him.

But when he held her as they dropped through the stage, all his anger paled in comparison to his blinding need to have her and the arrival of the Vicomte only pushed him closer to the edge. Erik yelled and raged against the flight of his reason and he was nearly at his wits end when her kiss brought him home.

He was doing it again, punishing her for her existence and his need for her.

Erik followed her trail of destruction and suppressed his urge to wince at the loss of his more exotic possessions. Ayesha sat near a shattered statue of a Persian stag, twitching her silky tale and watching him like he was the biggest fool in the world.

His home felt larger then it ever had before as he tracked her through the music room, the kitchen, the parlor, to his very own room.

She was huddled on the floor at the base of his coffin, clutching something rather large to her chest. He realized it was his music box as her head snapped up when she heard his footsteps.

She seemed to shrink into herself as he moved closer to her, and stopped before he could frighten her anymore.

He had no idea what to say, though an apology felt appropriate. She was watched him out of the corner of her eye, and her breath came out in short, painful gasps. Her hands trembled near the corners but she held the music box in front of her like a shield.

"Please," she whispered, almost below his hearing as fresh tears fell down the side of her face, "…please…"

_Forgive me, my angel,_ he thought, _**please**._

He felt bodiless, like he was hovering over himself watching with a sick fascination and dread. Perhaps he really had no courage, the dreaded Phantom of the Opera frightened of a young chorus girl, but the memory of the laughing girl in the drawing made him bold.

Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and asked, "Christine, why did you say yes?"


	8. Sing for Me

**Chapter #8  
Sing for me**

* * *

"Christine, why did you say yes?"

Christine sat on the floor absently running a hand over the ornate barrel organ. The red velvet was smooth beneath her palms and her fingertips traced the intricate embroidered flowers down the tiny cuffs of the coat. The monkey sat motionless on its perch, staring at her with an oddly solemn face for an animal, only because she could not find the trigger mechanism to make it play.

Such a marvelous toy, it was a shame no child would play with it.

"Christine?"

A pair of long, slim legs came into view behind the organ, but Christine continued to stare at the waxen face of the monkey. Perhaps it had to do with the waxy face staring back at her, but she could feel a grey numbness settle in the base of her heart and she was no longer afraid of him. She felt nothing, not even her own heartbeat, and she only wanted to hear the music box play.

One of her hands moved along the carvings on the base for the switch while the other rested limply on her thigh. She tilted her head in a childlike manner regarding the monkey and her long locks fell over her back exposing a long, threadlike, red mark running from the back of her ear, down the length of her neck. Erik looked at the tip of his index finger, and was disgusted that there was no such mark on him.

He swallowed. "Christine, I-"

"How does it work?"

"What did you say?" he said feeling the ground shift beneath him. Only three people in his life that had ever made him feel disoriented; his mother, obliging him with his reflection, Javert, and that was all thought he would allow the man, and Nadir, foolishly risking everything he had to save his life. Christine was different.

"I can not find the switch," she said calmly. "How do you get it to play?"

A single candle sat on Erik's chest of drawers. It was old, rarely used unless he felt the need to read by candlelight, and it had already melted almost to its base. The pathetic light was only useful if he held it directly above the pages, but it cast giant shadows that swayed and danced on his walls. Some of them flickered over Christine as she sat hunched over the music box and they set off the wetness under her eyes and the angry red marks against the paleness of her skin. She was so beautiful, and so very young. This woman, looking every day of her seventeen years, did not shock him, she _terrified_ him.

"Even the lowliest artist feeds off praise, Christine," he explained kneeling down in front of her. "You have to clap."

"Clap?" she asked, blinking in the candlelight. "Why? That night.. when I woke up… it was already playing."

He cracked a smile and touched the toy's waxed head.

"He will not play until his ego is satisfied," he dropped his hand back onto his lap and stared at the top of her head. "A lot like Carlotta."

"I do not think her ego will ever be satisfied," she said, not taking her eyes off the unusual toy. "Unless France gets bigger or she replaces Lafargue."

"No, I don't think that would please Monsieur Marx," he added wryly. "But this little fellow is a true musician. He needs to know his art is appreciated."

She didn't believe a word he said and he could tell. Music boxes were fairly simple inventions, after all. You wound them up to hear a happy tune, listened until then inards uncoiled itself, and then you put it away until the next time. Anything more complex and you were dealing with heavy machinery and not toys.

By now, Erik's thighs were burning. Christine heard a faint crunch as he moved and landed down next to her. He pushed some of her skirt to he side and arranged himself as comfortably as a tall man could be sitting on the ground.

"Do you remember how it felt, Christine? After your performance in Hannibal?"

She remembered like it had happened yesterday. The blinding lights, her dress clinging to her chest from her own sweat, thunderous applause, and joy throughout her body knowing that her father was watching, and her angel was near. She wanted to sing forever and might have had she not fainted. It had been her moment, however brief, and if she could have sold her soul to make it last forever, she would have given it up gladly.

She looked back down at the monkey, half expecting its eyes to light up with a musician's knowledge. It was exactly the same, and the only expression came from the flickering lights of the candle.

Christine brought her legs under her and shifted her weight to her left, wincing when she touched a bruise. She placed the barrel organ on the floor and kneeled down in front of it. She glanced at Erik and quickly looked away when he nodded his encouragement. If he was going to treat her like a fool, she might as well act like one.

At first, Christine clapped lightly, barely creating a sound. She brought her hands together to humor him as she was too tired to do anything else, and her wrist still throbbed rather painfully. But as she continued and the monkey did not move, her frustration grew and she slapped her hands together more with more force.

"Louder," he urged.

She pressed her lips into a thin line and she felt her face flushed in irritation. Leaning forward on her knees, she brought her hands up to the solemn face of the little monkey and it continued to sit silent. She leaned closer, knitting her russet brows in concentration and Erik had to swallow his amusement. It took every ounce of his self-censure to contain his laughter as Christine chewed her lip, trying to figure out the toy's secret.

Finally, when Christine believed she had beat her hands raw, the barrels turned and a soft melody rose in the air. Christine cried out in delight and settled back on her heels to listen.

"Erik," she said leaning closer and startling him out of his thoughts. "How does the song go?"

It was a fairly simple melody and by no means his greatest. The kind of tune one expected to hear in children's shows, but inherent in its playfulness was a feeling of deep despair, that the boisterousness only sought to mask deep pain. The tune had come long before the toy, on a night when the tightly restricted skeletons of his mind decided they had been silent long enough.

_I hope you have not forgotten us, little Erik, _they mocked. _We would never forget you. _

His score was eating him alive and his hands were shaking from exhaustion. The music demanded his attention and trivial things like sleep had to be pushed aside for the sake of Don Juan Triumphant. Several glasses of an immature wine loosened his mind and he found himself transported back to **that** place, where the scent of filthy bodies and nameless terror were as natural as air. But the light music playing above the roar of thrill seekers captured them in a dreamlike world of mutinous delight. No one ever suspected that such a joyous place as a fair ground could also be a prison.

He could see the cloud of faces as they crowded around the outside of his cage, hurtling insults as easily as they did stones.

"Let us see him!" they called. "Let us see the monster!"

He felt Javert's filthy hands on the back of his skull, cool air on his skin as his last barricade was ripped away, and the heavy silence that always precedes terror.

He might have cried if there had been anything worth mourning. He had lost nothing, and gained the knowledge that this would happen again and again, until he stopped feeling or he died.  
_  
Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

Twelve simple words and an obvious song, it had practically written itself. The monkey had come much later, but it felt fitting to join his greatest shame with his greatest comfort as a monument for a childhood he never had.

The melody was slowing down and Christine began running her hands over the base again in a vain attempt to find a phantom switch. He stopped her movements with his own hand.

"You will have to clap again."

This time, she did not hesitate and clapped her hands with enthusiasm. Before Erik had a chance to prepare, the melody started again and he added his own voice to the light chime of the music box.

"Masquerade… paper faces on parade…"

He saw her whole body relax and the guard she had erected around herself fall away. The melody repeated, wound around itself, and started again at the beginning. Solitude had been a hard won companion, but it had its drawbacks. Any frustration, anger, or desire he housed could only be vented through staffed paper and the price had been simple communication with another person. Erik continued to sing, hoping his sins could be forgiven with this small gift of himself, though he knew it would never be enough.

Her injured arm lay in the space between them, face up so he could see the bruises left by his fingers. A small offering, perhaps, or an accusation of what he had done to her. He certainly deserved all of her hatred yet when he brought his hand down to the fragile skin of her wrist, she did not flinch. He felt her pulse strong and steady under his fingers, and it emitted vibrant warmth under his corpse-like touch.

"Masquerade…"

Her fist, which had been closed up until then, suddenly bloomed in front of him and he slid his palm into her own before he could think about what he was doing.

Christine did not move when his grip found her palm. He wove his fingers around her hand like he did his voice around her body, begging for forgiveness and relishing her willing touch.

"…hide your face so the world will never find you…"

They stayed in that position long after the barrel organ was silent for what felt like hours, though it had only been moments. She made no move to resurrect the song, but Erik grasped her hand like a lifeline. The candle on his dresser had stopped flickering and the room looked clearer then it ever had before.

"Christine? I…"

"I couldn't bear it," her voice carried a fine tremor in it, even in a whisper. He noticed for the first time that she was watching their clasped hands as if she almost could not believe what she was seeing, but she did not try to untangle her hand.

When she made no move to explain further, he asked, "What do you mean?"

He had always thought of her eyes as a light blue, like the sky in early morning, but not anymore. Now they were deep green and vibrant like summer moss after a storm as they peered into his own, gleaming in the candlelight

"I am so selfish sometimes, but when you asked me, I was not thinking of the gendarmes or the audience, or even of Raoul." She laughed bitterly. "It's funny, isn't it, how your mind thinks of the silliest things at the most inappropriate times, but I couldn't help it. "

"All I could think was if I said no, I'd never hear your voice again. And… and I couldn't bear it."

She had not made any lasting declaration of love, but admitting a small part of herself belonged to him made his heart soar. His whole life, he had been a nuisance, a spectacle, and a terror, always something less then human for the sake of others. No one had ever needed him before. Definitely not his mother, to little Reza he had been nothing but a source of amusement. Now he mattered to someone and he felt it was more then he ever deserved.

But his joy could not overshadow his own guilt. He had driven her relentlessly since the beginning, pushing her voice to new heights, but her health suffered significantly and now she was only a shadow of a young woman. After she said yes, he isolated her simply because he was afraid and when he finally re-entered her life, he mocked her, brought her to tears, and damaged her.

"You know, when I was up there, all I could think about was why I insisted Don Juan wear a cloak. It was almost unbearable under the lights."

She laughed, an honest heartfelt giggle that shook his palm.

"I am sorry, Christine," he said, lightly touching the redness at her wrist with his other hand. "Despite all of my actions, I never wished to harm you. My temper gets the better of me sometimes, but it is completely inexcusable."

"I know," she untangled her hand from his and rose to her feet, and walked over to look at the candle. How it had managed to burn as long as it had, he would never know. "I know you only want what you think is best for me. I owe you so much. I sing because of you."

She turned and looked down at him then, still sitting near the music box.

"But you're so confusing, Erik. Sometimes I forget how little I know about you."

Her words were infused with the confusion he held for some of the actions of his fellow man. She had said you, and she had meant _him_, nothing more. No illusions, games, or dreams to hide behind. If there was a person still left inside of the phantom, she wanted to find him. Erik did not know if there was anything left behind that deception, but if she was willing to look, maybe there was something worth seeing. He rose up next to her with the music box in his arms and placed it to his dresser next to the candle.

"Sometimes I fear I don't know myself either, Christine." He flexed his hand by his side, already missing the smoothness of her palm. "But perhaps, in time, we may come to know each other a little better."

She smiled.

"I think I would like that."

_A/N: This is not the end, just the beginning, but I had to resolve things a bit before I threw it in the blender. ;)  
Paul Lafargue was a founder of one wing for the French workers party. He was also Karl Marx's brother in law. Yay history!  
Thanks for reading, and if you feel the urge, leave a review._


	9. Three Days More

**Chapter #9  
Three Days More**

* * *

"It has been three days."

"I am well aware of the time."

"Three days, Madame, and you've not made contact?"

"These things take time, he only makes contact when he requires something." The voice was harsh with tension; quiet enough not to attract attention, but strong enough that the smaller man took a step back. She stood as narrow and rigid as her cane and gripped it like she meant to use it as a weapon.

The little man, trying to regain some of his dignity, puffed up like a peacock and threw his hands in the air. "Well the bastard needs air, doesn't he! He can't hide in his hole forever!"

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes, though she could not be sure if it was because of this particular conversation, or the eight others she had had just like this one. "I advice you to watch your tongue, monsieur. And he can come out of his hole whenever _he_ wishes. He only seeks me when _you_ fail to meet his demands."

"It's not like he moved to bloody Rome! He's somewhere in this building!"

"I will not speak to you unless you are level headed, Monsieur Andre. You will have your answer when he wishes it. Good day."

Madame Giry walked away before Andre could get in another word. Normally, she would have stayed to clash wits with the man until her point was accepted, but loosing an argument seemed more attractive then committing assault. Antoinette had assumed after the conversation in the office that receiving Erik's blessing was the most important issue now. Every meeting after helped her understand that is was, but receiving it as soon as possible was just as important. She walked away towards the dance room trying to walk off her frustration, and felt it mount with each step.

She did not begrudge Erik's need to lie low, if Christine was still with him in his home and alive, she did not doubt that he would not have any idea what to do with her. He was not a man who entertained often and she almost laughed as she imagined Erik trying to play the host.

_Would you like to see my collection of lassos, Christin? No? How about my masks?_

Meg, thankfully, had not asked anything more after her mysterious visit to the Vicomte. She had adapted the habit of staring off into the distance like her absent friend, but she kept all her fears and questions to herself. It was a blessing in a way, and saved Antoinette the trouble of relating another detailed explanation that she was just as clueless as everyone else on the matter.

It was a blessing in that it saved her breath, but the silence and solemn expressions from her daughter as of late hardly seemed worth it. Coupled with the constant haggering of the management, Madame Giry had little time to do anything else but try to keep her temper in check. It was wearing very thin.

Madame Giry pushed the doors open into the dance room and watched as several dancers scattered to make it back into formation.

"Thank you, Brielle, that will be all."

Brielle, an upcoming dancer around Meg's age with flaming red hair, nodded to her mistress and returned to her place in the front row.

"I trust the girls were courteous, Brielle?"

The red head glanced from side to side, looking over the nervous twitching of her peers and shot a pointed look in the direction of Jammes and La Sorrelli. Sorrelli was helping to tie Jammes's dancing skirt, completely unaware of Brielle's obvious hostility. The temporary instructor turned back to the mistress and nodded her head.

"Yes, Madame, quite," she said tersely.

"I'm glad to hear it. And since it went so well, let us see how you have improved in my absence. Claudelle," the piano player snapped his head up from the dancer adjusting her stockings and turned bright red. "From the beginning, if you will."

The wiry little man nodded, and launched into the opening strains of _Coppélia_.

On the whole, it could have been much worse. Madame Giry had not had the time recently to pay enough attention to her company nor the will to devote herself as thoroughly as she had every other production. There were several tangled legs, and Sorrelli had become particularly flushed at one point and needed to take a break, but every step was more or less together, if not a little sloppy.

"Jontae!" the lead male nearly dropped his partner at Madame's roar. "If Franz was meant to dance like a wounded cow, I would have asked for it. Lift your legs, boy!"

She circled her students like a panther, making comments here and there on form, occasionally harsh criticism and blissfully loosing herself in the essence of dance. Meg was in perfect form as usual, except her mother noticed that her feet were slightly heavier then usual.

"Break girls, five minutes," she ignored the collective groans of relief and crossed to a far corner where Sorrelli sat rubbing her feet.

"Are you all right, child?" she asked softly.

The face that looked up at her was surprisingly green and the eyes a bit blood-shot. "Oh, quite, Madame. I'm just feeling a mite puckish lately. And these shoes are thinning out on me a bit."

Sorrelli held up her dance shoes in illustration and the toes were almost completely warned through. Antoinette made sure Meg never had that problem and got had a new pair every few months. Sorrelli's father had probably never seen a dance slipper before.

"I see. Ask Meg if you may borrow one of her old pairs. I hope you will take good care of yourself, my dear, the management is counting on you to lead once the next production is chosen."

The brunette's face light up like a lamp and the green tint vanished into an excited blush.

"Really! You mean it, Madame?"

"I would think it was pretty obvious after the last few performances, child. You have been carrying the company allot lately."

It was another subject she and the managers had grappled over many times in the past. Meg outshined the baker's daughter by far with raw talent, but Sorrelli had a few more years' experience, and more patrons clamoring at her door. Meg would earn her rightful place as prima one day, but for now patrons paid to see the sweet, flushing, and tempting figure of La Sorelli Delaflote.

"Yes, I did indeed Madame, I just did not dare hope. Do you know-" and her eyes darted from side to side to see if anyone was watching, "Do you know when the next production will begin? I've heard rumors, of course, but I would really like to know how soon we will start again."

Giry gripped her cane a bit more firmly then she needed and ivory handle pinched the palm of her hand.

"I have heard rumors as well, child, nothing definite. But I trust management will announce one soon so we can all get past this unpleasantness." This was more wishful thinking on her part, but Sorrelli did not need to know that. "Is there any particular reason for this urgency, child? Trouble at home?"

"No, Madame. Duddy's lungs only ache when it is damp, thank god," the girl crossed herself unconsciously. Her father had had several health conditions in the past, and was not expected to live the next five years. "I was just curious is all."

"Yes well, make sure you look after your health as well, I would hate for anything to ruin-"

"And you can see here, gentlemen, our dancers are hard at work for our next production."

Many of the girls had the grace to appear busy when the managers came into the dance room with a wealthy couple in tow. Claudelle, unfortunately, had his back to the door and his mouth opened wide as one of the dancers lifted her leg above her head and Madame Giry purposely cleared her throat. Andre's eyes scanned the crowd before they landed on her and Sorrelli.

He was explaining something to his audience, one she noticed was the Comte de Changy, and gesturing with his hands with as much force as he had when he spoke to her an hour ago. It reminded her the way a poodle would dance around its master's feet, begging for attention andlooking positively desperate.

Both of the managers were seasoned businessmen and could talk their way through any conversation, still she noticed the nervous looks the two gave one another when the Comte and his companion looked the other way.

Firmin approached her. "Madame Giry, I believe you have met the Comte de Chagny?"

Philippe genteelly bowed his head and gave her his trademark toothy grin. He looked like his brother at that moment and Antoinette had to stop herself before she asked about the young Vicomte. The woman on his arm hardly acknowledged her and stared at a far spot on the wall.

The Comte took her hand and briefly kissed her knuckles. "Madame, it is good to see you again. May I present my fiancé, Lady Katharina Deveroux."

Said lady finally took her eyes off the wall and curtsied stiffly, yet cordially to the ballet mistress.

"Madame Giry, I have heard word of your skill with your students all the way in Germany." There was a small, amber ambulant shaped like a teardrop hanging on her chest, glowing against the paleness of her skin

"Germany?" she asked forgetting her own rules of propriety for a moment. "I would take it by your name, my Lady, that you claim a French heritage."

"Several, actually," the lady's eyes resumed their wondering, scanning the crowd of girls. "My family is mostly German. My late husband was English with business connections in Germany."

"The Comte has just returned from Germany and wishes to announce his happy engagement after the next gala," Firmin explained wryly, leaving no room for subtlety. "He and the Lady are visiting to make sure everything is still in order."

"Interesting," Giry lightly tapped her cane on the ground. "I thank you for your kind words, my lady, though I believe they favor me in a far better light then I deserve."

Lady Deveroux met her eyes for the first time and Madame Giry nearly drew back. The woman was astonishingly beautiful, with deep chestnut hair, and pale creamy skin. The lavender silk gown she was revealed a generously curved figure and a graceful stature. Her eyes however were nearly black and as cold as a grey December morning. No amount of smiles or forced cordiality could hide their frostiness.

"Indeed. Well, would you care to show us then, Madame, and let us make the decision for ourselves. What do you say Philippe?" the Comte had taken to letting his gaze wonder himself, though it seemed settled on a far corner. "Could we see them dance? I do _so_ love ballerinas."

Philippe coughed. "Yes, well, if it would not interrupt Madame's rehearsals."

The managers gave her a pointed look from behind the couple and Madame Giry smiled cheerfully.

"No trouble at all, Comte. We were just practicing. Have a seat please."

By the time she reached her office, Madame Giry had a roaring headache. A cup of tea and a foot message would be perfect and she considered frightening one of the stage boys into doing it for her. Perhaps not, most of them had probably gone home anyway. She slammed the door behind her and tossed her cane to against the wall. She resented that she was considered a messenger to O.G first and not the ballet mistress of the Pails Garnier. She had run the rats through extra routines to remind herself and her students who she really was.

The impromptu performance had gone relatively well. With the added pressure of an audience, they performed better then they had in weeks. Sorrelli was exhausted by the end, but she managed to finished and then vomit quietly in the corner to the horror of the management. Lady Deveroux had offered to send her physician, but Sorrelli waved her off explaining it was only a touch of cold. Jammes had helped her to her room and promised to make sure the girl got a cup of tea before she went home to her father.

The Comte and Lady Deveroux had been courteous and generous in their praises when they took their leave, but there was something about the cold gaze of the noblewoman that did not sit well with her. Madame Giry saw the way the woman's eyes scanned the dancers, eyeing them dubiously as if they were dung beetles throughout the performance and almost felt compelled to defend her students.

_Not dung beetles_, she thought, _rats maybe, but not insects._

Then again, her eyes had been practically twitching by the time the couple left, and they may have been playing ticks on her. Still, the compliments she had showered on her felt a bit forced out of her black soul and through her teeth. Giry hoped the Comte realized what he would be getting if he married the woman

"You seem distressed, Madame. Surely you would not let that Andre get to you."

Antoinette groaned. She would have preferred to let her nerves cool and her mind settle before she made this interview. But the cloaked figure in the corners of the room was enough to tell her he would not be dismissed for her sake.

"Anything can wear on one's nerves if it's persistent enough," she stated simply, easing down into her chair.

"Indeed," Erik agreed and planted himself comfortably on the end of her desk. A small, metal frame with a likeness of a five-year-old Meg sat near the edge and moved with the invasion of his thigh. Madame gasped as it teetered dangerously near the edge. Another subtle shift of his body and the frame lost its balance, plunging determinedly to the ground.

Madame Giry shot out of her chair, chocking on the nastiest words she could think to call him when she noticed the frame was in his hand, perfectly intact.

"How-" but she stopped herself before she did anything more and sat back down in her chair.

He never visited her for pleasure, and he rarely initiated conversation even when it was a matter of importance to him. It was another aspect of his personality she accepted over time, like the murders, she reminded herself, but with the disappearance of both him and Christine, and the added stress to appease the noble couple, she found it highly inappropriate.

Antoinette regarded him with her most intimidating stare and Erik took no notice and studied the likeness of Meg.

"I trust Meg is in better spirits," he said finally as his fingers glided over the metal surface.

How dare he! How _dare _he! She had tolerated the lessons, the notes, the opera, even the numerous kidnappings for god knew what. By mentioning Meg, he was reminding her she only had one true daughter of her body and no genuine say in Christine's life. Years of maternal care for the girl had been thrown back in her face and Madame had the sudden, deadly urge to beat him with her cane. Unfortunately, it was resting far out of her grasp against the wall. She dug her nails dig into the pads of her hand instead.

She shot out of her seat and snatched the picture from his hand.

"You will either explain yourself, monsieur ghost, or you remove yourself from my sight!" It was the same tone she used to discipline the dances and Erik almost laughed at being on the receiving end. Now he knew why they were all so terrified of her.

"Your own desire confuses you," he pointed out and folded his arms across his chest. She noticed for the first time he did not wear any hat and looked about as normal as an Opera Ghost could. "You will not learn anything if you are so eager to be rid of me."

Madame Giry was a proud woman and a formidable opponent. Erik had heard her described as ruthless by many of her students, even her own daughter, so when she slumped her shoulders acknowledging defeat, Erik questioned if he was suffering from a relapse into a morphine spell.

"Is she well?" Madame finally asked. No matter how in the wrong he was, and she had a brief image of Piangi's dead, bloated, body, he would never relinquish his control over her or any of the company and he never hesitated to remind her of it. She could accept that so long as he kept the opera running, but she could not accept him harming a girl she loved almost as much as her own daughter.

"She is in good health." Antoinette had known him long enough to know the most she could hope for was that she still breathed. She could meddle, she could question, and she could even throw a tantrum if she cared to, but she could not stop Erik from traveling this course. Nor could she stop _two_ people, stubborn as mules that had made up their minds along time before they realized what they were doing. Her hands went slightly numb.

"Erik, surely you aren't blind to see this will end well. She's young. Don't lock her away for your sake."

"I plan on doing nothing of the sort," he growled and stood up from the desk.

"Then what do you have planned?" and she received no answer.

He was always meticulous, even ruthless in his control of the opera. There was no decision he made that he did not consider to the very last detail and no obstacle he did not work to overcome. But everything he had done since seeing Christine had been decided on impulse. He sang to her before he realized he had opened his mouth then kidnapped after a simple reunion with a childhood friend. Time proved their reunion to be anything but simple and this complete twist of fate had been so unexpected, he had to mask his astonishment every time he found her in his home and forgotten why she was there.

He had no plans for the future or even the end of this day, and the knowledge that Christine was below, in his home unnerved him a great deal. But he could no more admit that to Madame Giry then he would remove his mask in front of her. Better that Madame thought he was some kind of heartless hostage taker then a pawn in his own game.

"I prefer not to discuss the details of our relationship, Antoinette, but I would hope you would know she will come to no harm under my care." He shoved aside the image of an angry red mark running down the length of a delicate neck.

"A relationship you yourself do not understand. I will say no more on it so long as you promise she will be safe. But remember this, Erik, you are not her angel anymore, so I suggest you stop pretending and be what you really are."

Even she did not understand what he really was. A phantom, yes. A genius, without a doubt. But somewhere buried within the macabre exterior was a man with desires like any other. She had seen it only once in the years of their acquaintance, up on a stage, steeling the words of another, knowing his own would never be good enough. She only hoped the two of them would come to realize that before it was too late.

Madame Giry placed the likeness back on its rightful place near a bundle of private letters.

"The managers mean to perform Don Juan again," she spoke simply.

"So I heard."

"You know what they're offering in return for your cooperation?"

His hand settled on the edge of the desk again absently tracing a pattern into the cherry-wood surface.

"Peace," he said, rolling the world in his mouth like a pastry "…such an ambiguous word. I wonder if they even know what it means."

He shifted his wrist and repeated the motion again.

"Do I have your consent?"

Satisfied with the pattern, he brought his limb back under the cloak where it disappeared.

"You better see to Meg, Madame. The damp is not forgiving to a ballerina's health."

And his hidden message was plainly clear; no answer until he was ready. She would have to make more excuses to the managers and the thought alone made her retch, but at least she knew it would be on his mind.

She watched his retreating back for a moment before she called to him.

"Erik?" he stilled.

In her mind she could see Meg, happy and rosy with the exuberance of her youth. Then Serge in the grips of a fever, his features shadowed by the grey of impending death, but his glazed eyes held hers with the fierceness of his love for her, one she shared and still held. Then she could see Erik and the traces of hope he dared to feel for the first time in his life die away as quickly as they had been fashioned.

"She can't save you. Only you can do that."

He turned to face her and for a moment, she thought he might return. But he only nodded his head.

"I'll remember that, Madame."

With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

_Disclaimer: I don't own Coppélia, Delibes and Arthur Saint-Léon did. I don't own Phantom, Leroux ALW, and Kay do.  
All I own is this story and the wonderful reviews I receive. Thank you all so much!  
M_


	10. Spirited Words

**Chapter #10  
Spirited Words**

* * *

There was something painfully ironic about being sent home like a naughty schoolboy. For one thing, Erik never had the privileged of attending school and he touched his mask to remind himself why. And another, he certainly did not feel like a pre-pubescent youth. Despite Antoinette's attempts otherwise, he felt irrevocably old and he wanted nothing more then to go home to a fire, hot tea… and Christine.

His life was becoming quaintly domestic, in its own odd way, and it charmed him immensely. The relationship with Christine was a long way from friendship or even comfortable companionship, but many tensions had lessened since their little understanding in his bedroom. She never initiated conversation beyond minimal inquiries, but neither did she make any effort to avoid him. For now, it worked pleasantly enough and he would make every effort to keep it that way.

"She can't save you, Erik," Antoinette had said. "Only you can do that."

_If I could have_, he thought dryly, _I would have done it a long time ago._

Most of the performers had been enjoying an extended vacation and the Opera house was nearly deserted. A few stagehands remained to make minimal repairs, keeping mostly to themselves and every afternoon Antoinette held rehearsal so her dancers stayed in shape for the next performance. Soon, the backstage area would be clamoring with dancers, performers, and stagehands for the re-release of his opera, but for now the air was still, silent, and completely safe. If he wished, he could walk out in the open like a normal man and did so, forgetting his usual caution that confined him to the shadows.

He was about to disappear behind a rather large stage prop into one of his numerous hidden passages, when the sound of hushed conversation stopped him in his tracks.

"When can I see you again?" a feminine voice questioned.

A man answered her. "I don't know."

Erik ducked behind the stage prop and held his breath. Secretive conversations were common in theatre life and often, their knowledge could be used to an advantage. Such information, properly executed, could yield a generous donation to the Opera and a substantial bonus for himself, but right now, it was merely a barrier on his way home and he had no patience for it.

His position did not offer a clear view of the two but he was fairly sure he knew their voices. The girl had to be one of Antoinette's and the man… well he could not place the owner but he had heard that voice at a patron's banquets. He considered warning Antoinette that she might be robbed of another dancer soon, but dismissed it right away. That woman probably already knew like she knew everything else that was going on within these walls

Damn Antoinette's eyes! He should have let the management toss her out on her pregnant ear all those years ago. What did she know about the two of them, anyway? Allot, if he was honest with himself.

"Can't you try?" the woman persisted.

Her companion sighed, and spoke to her like a father would with an ignorant child. "You already know I cannot, darling. I told you from the beginning how it would be. You're not ill, are you? You look pale."

Erik heard the girl shake her head and her thing voice barely reached his ears. "No, it's just… I can't seem too…I-"

Her words cut off in a sequence of tiny, muffled sobs. He heard a sound, like fabric rubbing against itself and assumed the man had taken the girl into his arms. The girl's sobs were now accompanied by soothing shushing noises from her companion, and Erik assumed the sight must be quite comical.

He wondered, though, what it would be like to give someone comfort.

It appeared comfort was not given in ridiculous words, but in the company of another body. The sheer presences of someone else served as an anchor for that person to hold onto when everything else seemed lost.

Erik had never let himself believe he could be the one to physically console Christine, the desire at times was so strong, and his hands shook with the effort to control himself. His voice gave her joy, triumph, and the remnants of a father's foolish promise. But it was never him that took her in his arms and made the world safe for her.

"Shhh… I know, darling, I know. But we have to be careful now. I don't want anyone suspecting anything. If anyone should find out, I would not be able to see you again."

_Bravo_, monsieur. He could not think of a more effective statement to silence a mistress. The poor girl was probably far down his ventures wooing the fairer sex. Perhaps he could enlighten the man's wife on her husband's activities, if he had one.

Erik repressed a snort. It was a rare woman who did not know of her husband's infidelity and an even more foolish man who thought himself unsuspected. Better to let this play out by itself and not get caught in the cross fire when it ended badly.

"Is that all I am to you? Your bed buddy?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Then why won't you even look at me?" Erik almost felt sorry for her.

But the interlude was rapidly becoming a tragic opera and Erik's patience was running out. The large, wooden prop Erik had used to hide himself was actually the Elephant from the last production of Hannibal. One of the legs had been badly damaged after too many mounts by the plump Ubaldo Piangi and it leaned heavily on its side.

"If I looked at you, then she would know," the man was practically shouting in a whisper, his voice rising with each word.

The ballerina did not seem to notice. "Then what does it matter? You love me, don't you? So what if she knows?"

The original carpenter had been very skilled and the elephant was surprising light and sturdy, despite the damage. One push and it barely moved. Two pushes and it began to sway.

"Are you daft, girl? Do I even need to tell how it would ruin everything if she even suspe-"

Three pushes and it came crashing down at their feet.

The girl gave out a loud shriek as the elephant slammed onto the hard wooden floor. Erik concealed himself in the shadows as several stage men came to investigate.

"What's going on back there?" someone called.

The girl was about to answer when her companion covered her mouth. Without the elephant blocking his view, he could clearly see who they were. Apparently family resemblance was more then skin deep and he was not in the least bit surprised. If word got out of this little affair, the man would come through with an intact, if not animated reputation. The girl, however, would be out on the streets before the end of the day. If she became pregnant, she might as well drop herself on the doorstep of a local brothel and be done with it. There would be nothing else for her.

It would be so easy, so simple, to see Christine in the girl's place. She was definitely a good girl, her father had raised her well. But he wondered how far morals went when one was offered the glamour of a mistress's pay. If he had not taken notice of her, or if that blasted boy's intentions had been even a little less noble…

He shook his head to clear away such traitorous thoughts. He had found Christine and that was all that mattered.

The man leaned in to his mistress and whispered in her ear. She shook her head aggressively and from his view, Erik could see the color drain from his face. The stagehands were coming closer and the patron looked around for a place to hide. There was no such place. He gave her a parting hug, then made off towards the back stage exit, leaving the ballet rat to face the stagehands. The ballerina eyes followed him until he was safely out of sight.

"Is there anyone there?" Bernard Colville, Joseph Buquet's replacement stared when he realized who it was. The man was a bit of a fool, but he was kind and he stayed well away from the women in the company. Erik had lost track of the inane mistakes the man had already made, but it was willing to overlook it for the sake of some of the younger company members.

"What the bloody hell are you doing back here?" Bernard scratched his head in bewilderment. "Go home, there's nothing that needs doing here."

Another stagehand joined them. "Well, look who's here? Come to ride the big elephant, eh love? I got something just as big you could ride."

The girl ignored this and raised her chin at the other man.

"I came back here to find a costume and the prop fell. Gave me a fright," the girl had not missed a beat. She would have probably made a better actress then she did a dancer, Erik observed.

Bernard walked around the fallen elephant surveying the damage. A broom, pinned under the elephant's weight had been neatly sliced in half. "You're lucky that's all it gave you. Three feet to your left, and you would have been dancing with the angels."

"I'm sorry," she said, though it was clear from her tone that she was not.

"Nothing to it, girl. Just go home to your supper and be careful next time."

"I'll take her home," the other stage man offered and leered at her.

Bernard smacked the young lad on the ears. "You mess with that one, mac, and Giry will eat your hide. Where's the costume you need?"

"Oh?" the foolish girl had already forgotten her lame excuse. "It's not important, I'll get it tomorrow."

"Fine way to waste a man's time. Almost thought you were the ghost." Erik straightened. There was no way they had seen him, still…

"Ghost?" the girl perked up at every ballet rat's favorite subject. "You have seen him? Was Christine with him?"

"Don't go believing everything you hear, little one. Come on, I'll take you home."

Erik took advantage of the situation and pressed the mechanism to the passageway. The door slid open without a sound and slid shut just as quietly, shutting out the world behind him. Erik heaved a sigh of relief.

The passageways, while infinitely confusing to anyone stupid enough to wander in, were actually fairly simple. One only had to find the way down, follow it, and it lead directly to the house on the late, if one was lucky enough to avoid the traps. Complexity in simplicity was one of his favorite tricks and he took great pleasure in utilizing its advantages. He had said so to Christine two days ago and regretted it instantly as thoughts of that foolish Vicomte quickly invaded her mind.

_She can't save you, Erik._

But she had certainly saved that boy and his lips tingled faintly with the memory.

That kiss, that _damnable_ kiss! Her touch had scorched his skin like fire, consuming him to his core and he had been helpless against it. He would have done anything to loose himself to it once again. Had she asked, he would have set her free and lived off the memory of her perfect lips molding against his own.

Had she felt it too? That spark? Or was it just wishful thinking on his part? By no means was he guilty of false modesty, but he could have bet his life she had felt that flare of life, when lust and something else combined and ignited like gunpowder. His mind dipped and swirled, spinning rapidly out of control until it left him with only fragments of feeling; wetness of tears from her eyes, or perhaps his own, the rapid pulse of his heartbeat, the light trembling of digits on his neck that were surprisingly strong. And her lips, always her lips, dragging him down into the insanity of lust until he somehow managed to pull away.

_Only you can do that._

Did he even want to? This arrangement, whatever one could call it, could not go on forever, he had known that all along. She was still part of a world he had turned is back on and it was only a matter of time before this whole façade collapsed. If she were wise, she would try to make things right with Raoul. The boy obviously loved her and still did if he was only half the fool Erik thought him to be. She had the Girys too, both little Meg's friendship and the fierce protection of Madame. A whole life waited for her above the ground, ripe with possibility for one as talented and beautiful as Christine. But if the price of his soul was a few weeks more of her exclusive company, hell could wait and the Girys too.

The gondola was floating innocently on the waves when he reached the lakeshore. It dipped against his weight when he climbed in and he took a moment to steady himself before he took up the pole and pushed off. There were quicker ways to get home, of course and his mind was still spinning from his talk with Antoinette and the scene backstage, but the repetitive work of pooling the gondola relaxed him. Water dripped from the rocks like clock work and every once in a while he would hear the splash of a wandering rat as it fell into the water. Nadir once told him the underground lake smelled like hell's underarm. He brushed the comment off with a witty retort on Persian manners, but by himself, he could admit there was something to the old policeman's observations.

He sniffed. Decaying stone and moss were very strong, with traces of stale air. He took another sniff; rotting wood and old mortar but there was something else. Something distinct and heavy. He sniffed one last time.

Smoke.

Erik's home was on fire.

At least he thought it was. He had smelled traces of it smoke all the way in the third cellar, and attributed it to the opera's firemen. Smoke miles below the streets of Paris was no accident and the closer the gondola came to his sanctuary, the more he realized it was the source of the smell. He had left Christine inside, all alone.

Smoke was billowing out of the walls as he leapt from the gondola before it hit the shore. The doorway was not hot, but he threw open anyway, and walked right into a wall of smoke.

"Christine!" he called before the smoke could clog his lungs. "Christine! Where are you?"

No answer save the sound of his own coughs. The smoke stung his eyes, making them water and he scrambled frantically through the darkness. Ten odd years of familiarity in his home were no match for blind panic and Erik stumbled through the halls, knocking over items in his path, and feeling frantically for a limp body.

_She can't be dead, she won't be dead, **please** don't lead her be dead_, he thought madly.

"Christine, answer me!"

If he could find the source of the fire and extinguish it, it was be easier to look for Christine. But, if the flames were too strong, he would have to find her and hope they had not already burned her to ashes. The smoke was becoming thicker by the second, and it would only be a matter of minutes before there was no air left to breath.

He found a door and felt it with his hands, it was cold. He turned the doorknob and it opened into the library, no Christine. The music room was same as he had left it hours before, but still no sign of Christine. By now, Erik's eyes were burning and every breath filled his lungs with more smoke. Inhaling was pure agony and he could feel his knees weaken under the strain. His clothes clung to his body from his sweat, but it was more due to nerves then insufferable heat.

"Chr-Christine!" He did not know if he had managed to say it out loud or only think it and he felt like he were chocking on his own air.

He had fell onto his knees and crawled along the walls like a blind dog. Every breath ended in a cough and he felt like someone had run sandpaper over his eyes. Nothing mattered anymore. Christine was probably dead and if she was, what was the point? He could only hope he would stay conscious long enough to find Christine's body, lie by it, and die. If there was a heaven, and if he could see it before going to where he truly belonged, perhaps he could hear her gorgeous voice one last time.

"Bloody hell! Damn it all and the rotten horse it rode in on!"

That voice, he knew that voice. It was not quite how he wanted to hear her again. He would take it, though, if that was all he could get.

"Burn up on me, will you? I'll give you to that cat and hope she hacks you out with her fur!"

The voice broke off in a string of colorful curses, and Erik followed it on his hands and knees to the source in the kitchen.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. The scene that greeted him in the kitchen looked more like one in those awful erotic novels then real life. Her checks were rosy and the fine skin of her face shone with small tendrils of sweat. Those lips that could bring a man to his knees from sight or sound were puffed up twice their size and the bottom part was seized beneath her teeth in concentrations.

She was beautiful, and she was covered in soot.

Ayesha was perched on a counter top, watching her rival with what could only be described as sadistic amusement. The tiny cat shifted its gaze to the sight of her master on his hands and knees in the doorway and seemed to raise an eyebrow that said all he needed to know about how ridiculous he looked.

Christine was standing in front of the oven with a book in her hand, waiving it frantically to stop a small fire that had started within. The front of her dress and most of her face were blackened and from this distance, Erik could see the red rims around her eyelids. The smoke flew back at her efforts, but it only fueled the fire and more rose with every stroke.

"Fine!" she yelled, and tossed the book away, hitting Erik squarely in the chest. "I'll teach you to burn on me!"

Her hand groped blindly on the countertop until it caught hold of Ayesha's leg and the little lady hissed and swiped at her hand. Christine's cry was more angry then hurt and swung her arm at the cat. The animal stood up and arched her back, apparently just as annoyed as Christine.

"I'll deal with you later," she warned in a tone that made Erik glad she had not found any of his carving knives yet.

The fire, seemingly jealous at the lack of attention, surge up again with an alarming ferocity. Christine resumed her blind grope, before it landed on a prize and she hurled it at the blaze.

"Christine no-" but it was too late. Christine jumped at the sound of his voice and screamed when Erik came barreling into her, and tackled her to the ground, before the wine hit the blaze.

He heard a loud _whoosh_, followed by immense heat on his back and he could not decide if it hurt worse then Christine kicks right into his gut.

"Get off! Get off!" she cried, squirming like a fish underneath him.

"Don't move!" he hissed and laid his hand on her mouth. She bit him, hard. "Damn it!"

He leapt off her and knocked right into the counter top. Ayesha hissed and moaned behind him and the blaze in the oven continued to burn.

He looked around for a towel, an oven mitt, anything that might protect his hands, but found none. His eyes settled on Christine laying on the ground and watching her fire with a kind of macabre astonishment. She wore one of her finer dresses ones, a lavender gown made of heavy alepine and before he could stop himself, he knelt at her side and tore half the skirt off.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but got no answer.

With the bit of spun alepine in his hands, Erik thrust his hands into the fire and extracted the pan. He felt nothing at first; he could have been holding something as harmless as a basket. Christine's face had gone as white as her undergarments, and she opened and closed her mouth several times before giving up and pointing to his hands.

Her voice croaked. "Your…"

By now, heat had reached his hands and he felt it literally melting off his bones. It had not occurred to him what to do with the pan in the first place, and there was no place in the entire kitchen to get rid of it.

Without thinking, he turned on his heel with the burning pan and ran out the door. Time felt as if it had slowed down as he tore through his home once again. Christine's faint cry behind him, the furious hiss of the fire in his hands, the recurring smack of his feet on the floorboards. Even his breathing, labored and ragged from the smoke, fell into a slow rhythmic groove of indifference as if life-threatening moments had no place outside of life's cycle. But he gave no notice as he ran, the heat melting the fabric of Christine's ruined dress onto his palms.

The lake sat as peaceful as he had left it before and the gondola floated fifteen feet away from the shore. He stopped just short of the waters ledge and hurled the pan into the lake, a distinct rip of his flesh as the pan flew away. A quote began to form in his mind, but he pushed it away as he watched the flames sail through the air with sick interest. The pan erupted in a violent rush of steam and smoke and it sank beneath the water's surface.

"Idle hands," Erik quoted and sank to the floor.

Christine found him sitting near the edge of the lake, watching the steam with no expression on his face. His hand lay open on his lap and she could see the beginnings of blisters growing beneath the abused skin. Somehow this was more alarming then the fire and she sat down beside him.

Christine was by no means a skilled physician nor an adequate healer, but she had seen enough injuries in her days as a clumsy dancer to know some basics of medical care. She tore off the rest of her ruined dress and knelt by the shore as she soaked it in the freezing water.

"Give me your hands," she said and Erik finally looked at her. He searched her face for a moment, and found something that made his frown deepened. But he held his hands out obediently as she washed them with the fresh rag.

"You will need to keep them cool," she instructed. Of course he knew what to do. Still, it felt comforting to say something, and care for him, even if it was unnecessary. She moved back to the waters edge again to soak the rag again.

"What was it?" Her confusion must have shown on her face. "What was _that_?" he repeated.

He jerked his head towards the lake and Christine followed his gaze to the steam rising above the water. "Oh, that! Well it is, or it was bread."

He blinked. Christine returned to his side and reached out to soak his abused hands again, but he pulled them back out of her reach. "Bread?

"Yes bread. I tried to make it so we could have some for breakfast, but it did not turn out quite as I hoped." She waved her hand, dismissing the whole ordeal. If it were possible, Erik's jaw would have hit the floor.

"You nearly burned my house down trying to make bread?"

"I didn't nearly burn your house down," she said indignantly and raised herself up on her legs. "The whole thing is same as it was, only a bit smelly now."

He blinked again and looked at her like she had called herself a dog. She was beginning to get uncomfortable under his gaze when he doubled over and wheezed.

"My God Erik, are you alright?" It suddenly occurred to her that Erik was not chocking or suffocating, but laughing. Events like these had happened so rarely in the time she had known him, she could scarcely recognize them when they did happen. It was a good, full-bodied event that was normal for most people, but almost entirely foreign to the man sitting in front of her. There was no malice in it, simply the amusement of the whole situation. In between laughs, he coughed and his whole body seemed to shake with the force. Although she felt more embarrassed then she thought she ever had in her lifetime, she could not help but laugh along with him.

"Bread!" he coughed. "I can't believe it."

She wiped a tear from her eye and sat back down next to him. "It's true, God help me, and I could have burned down this whole bloody place."

Erik snorted again, but the laughs and coughs began to die down leaving the sound of lapping water and Erik's light wheezing of breath.

His masked side was to her, and the only expression she saw was the frigid scowl of the mask. Given the circumstances, she could understand why it would not be smiling but it was disappointingly polar to the moment they had shared seconds ago.

He turned to face her. "Christine, have you ever baked anything on your own before?"

The question caught her off guard and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

"Well, no," she admitted. "We always ate here and my father never cooked, but Meg has and she told me once all you need is some butter, and flour and a little bit of-"

"Christine," he cut her off, raising his right hand. "I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But please, please do not try anything so complicated when I am not at home."

She frowned. "Well, you weren't here. I didn't know if you would ever come back and I was hungry, so I thought I would give it a try."

"I did come back," he pointed out.

"How the bloody hell was I suppose to know you would? And here I thought you'd pop up again like last time and nearly give me an attack."

Erik felt his temper rise as well. "And how do you think I felt, Christine, coming home to a house filled with smoke? I think I did have an attack when I saw you in front of that oven waving that infernal book at the fire."

At the word 'book,' Christine's eyes lit up.

"Oh no, I forgot!" she disappeared into the house like a shot and Erik swayed on his feet as he stood up to follow her.

She was in the kitchen again, beating the ends of an unsalvageable book. She looked up when he came in and her eyes gleamed with fresh tears.

"I'm sorry Erik," she choked. "So sorry. I didn't mean to… I'm so sorry."

Erik could vaguely make out the title on the cover. _Don Juan by Lord Byron._

"I'll buy you a new one, I promise" She held out the book to him and several tears ran down her cheeks.

He took the book from her and his fingers lightly brushed her own. Comfort comes in the physical presents of another body. Could he even be so bold?

Erik shook his head. No, not now, not ever. "Don't worry yourself, my dear, it's alright. There are plenty of books stores in the city to get a new one."

"But, your opera? Isn't this where it came from?"

Erik put the book back down on the kitchen table, his hands still stung and it hurt to hold anything for more then a few moments "Bits and pieces, but nothing important. Besides, I've read it enough times to know the story. But you," he looked her over. "How do you feel?"

"What me?" she touched the back of her knotted head. Several strands of her beautiful mass of curls had actually melted together around her face. "I'm fine."

He cleared his throat. "I … um.. am sorry I tackled you, Christine."

It was Christine's turn to blink and the corner of her mouth twitched, but he would not call it a smile. "Oh, that. Think nothing of it. Payment maybe, for nearly burning down your house. But your hands? Are they all right? Do you think you could play again?"

"Tonight, actually, if you like. Would you care for another music lesson?" Why he had offered so soon, he did not know. He had not even told her it would be staged again.

"A music lesson! Your hands are nearly burnt off!"

"Your dress helped a great deal, Christine. Oh, sorry about that, by the way."

The mention of her dress brought them both the embarrassing realization that Christine was with him in nothing but a torn bodice and dirtied clothing. He had seen her before in the scandalous costumes for the chorus, and the first time he had brought her here in her dressing gown. But there was something more intimate about seeing her undergarments, like he had walked in on her while she was dressing.

Erik cleared his throat and began to cough once again.

"On second thought, maybe we should delay that lesson for a while. Perhaps you should wash up. I'll see what I can throw together in the kitchen."

"Let me, Erik. The least I could do for ruining your kitchen. I'll make something."

"That is exactly why I don't want you in there," he said and she laughed. "Go on, freshen up, I'll be fine."

Sleep was always easy; it was the dreams that were difficult. They came to her soft and warm like a summer breeze, beckoning her into a world where her father still sat by the fire, a violin in hand and a story on his tongue. Sometimes she found Meg and her mother, arguing vehemently in the loving manner that only mother and daughter knew. And once in a while, she would find Raoul laughing in that way that made her feel like everything was right with the world and that she was loved.

It never lasted. The summer breeze would lift and all that was left to her was the cold caress of reality. Her father was dead and Raoul was far away, perhaps just as lost to her. She could not wake up from that, but at least while she was awake she could forget. But lost as a prisoner to her own subconscious, it seized her in a viselike grip and did not release her until the morning hours.

Dinner had been quiet but pleasant. As promised, Erik produced an adequate dinner of cheese and fruit and promised to get more food soon. They ate in silence not out of spite, but finding their food more engaging then their company. After a few moments, she finished and excused herself to go to bed.

"It's been a long day," she explained.

"So it has," he answered and helped her clear their meager meal.

"I… if you're well, that is. I would…" she stopped and grinned at him weakly.

"Yes?" he asked, raising a visible eyebrow.

"I do not think I'm in a position to make requests, but I think I would like that music lesson tomorrow. If you are well enough, that is."

The source of her concern still throbbed rather painfully, but not enough to render him cripple. He spread them for her to see on the table and she winced at the sight of the angry blisters.

"They are still whole, aren't they?" she nodded, not taking her eyes off the site. "I will be more than happy to play for you tomorrow."

She turned to leave, when Erik's voice stopped her.

"Just a moment, Christine," he was struggling to say something. She waited patiently for him to speak, but he seemed to give up and shake his head. "Good night, my dear. Sleep well."

"Good night… Erik." Then quietly, she left the room.

In her dream, she was alone. An unending stretch of water spread out before her and behind, the sandy beaches gave way to a massive forest. She was trapped, but it did not seem to matter. Here she was safe, here nothing could harm her so long as she did not stray too close to one side.

She picked up a rock at her feet and studied it carefully. The gentle caress of the shoreline had smoothed its edges and it was warm under her fingertips like a tiny egg. The sea remained motionless before her and when she hurled the rock towards the horizon, she heard no splash.

She felt _him_ there, just beyond the edges of her consciousness, lingering as if he waited permission to be let in.

"It's alright," she said out loud. "You can come in now."

But nothing changed.

"Hello?"

No answer.

She began to run then along the water's edge. Her hair fell free of its tight knot and flowed down her back like a cloud bouncing along with each step.

"Where are you?" she called and her voice shook with the effort. It seemed important that she find him, somehow she knew he was lost. The water gently lapped near her racing feet, but it did nothing to relieve her strained nerves.

There, far off in front of her, a figure lay still on the sandy beach. She made no effort to hide her approach, but the figure lay motionless on its side, heedless to even the gentle lapping of the water enveloping its body.

She knelt down beside the body in the water and placed an arm his shoulder. He was as cold as the rock and seemingly just as lifeless. Christine turned her attention to the ground and saw several spots of dark red mingling with the seawater. Her mind knew it was blood.

She began to shake him then, with more force then she thought she possessed, but the body lay as still as it had when she found it.

"This isn't funny," she said and shook him harder. With all her strength, she turned him onto his back….

…and screamed.


	11. Perchance a Song

**Chapter #11  
Perchance a Song **

* * *

There was no question of sleep for him; it was never easy and his life was the constant nightmare the robbed him of it. Eight hours surrender in mindless oblivion for him was time better spent composing or terrorizing the opera house.

And what was he doing now but wasting time? For hours, he paced the length of his room, tracing and retracing his steps until the numbers reached the triple digits, stopping every dozen or so steps to stare at his newly mal-formed hands.

To prevent infection, Erik drained the fluid from the blisters and wrapped them in linens. The burns were relatively mild, the only discomfort was the constant itching and sensitive touch. In time, they would heal, but until then, he looked like a carnival fighter with a fetish for masks.

"What do you think, Ayesha?" The little Persian princess was dozing on the vanity and paid her master minimal attention. "Will anyone love me for my hands now?" Ayesha cracked one pale, blue eye then curled herself into a tighter ball.

"I suppose not. At least I still have my cherubic good looks." The cat flicked her tail, effectively dismissing him.

Some semblance of sympathy would have been appreciated given the burnt limbs, but his mind was moving too fast to care.

He had meant to tell her. Tonight, he had planned to tell Christine about the managers and his plans and came close to doing so, but stopped himself at the last moment. He could blame his hesitance on the incident with the pan or Christine's shocking display of spirit, but it would have been a filthy lie. At some time in the midst the eventful evening, it occurred to him that his borrowed time was running out and soon, he would have to release her to the world of the opera, the Girys and Raoul. Funny how the thought filled him with child-like terror and a murderous urge to kill. One, he knew well enough, the other…

He was by no means a perfect man. He had stopped wondering what life would be without the deformities of his face and soul. Dreaming of an ordinary life was useless when it was clear from birth you had no chance. He had been trying for Christine's sake. Never normalcy, it was too alien to him, but with another week or even a day, he might have been able to redeem himself in Christine's eyes from horrid captor to possible friend. Now, he had only hours to accomplish something he had never mastered in his forty plus years.

"Tomorrow," he said out loud. "I'll tell her everything in the morning.

And then? Then he would have to leave it up to Christine to decide where to go from there.

Parts of Don Juan would have to be rewritten and entire final act would have to be scrapped. Dark seduction and forced submission felt a bit redundant when the object of his desires was sleeping fifteen feet from his doorway, and the thought made him slightly dizzy.

He began to pace faster as he made a mental checklist of all that he would have to do in the coming days; rewrite the opera, alert Madame and the managers, resume lessons with Christine and hope that it all didn't go to hell. Erik sighed. He was on limited time as it was and it would only grow shorter with the announcement that Mademoiselle Daae was alive and performing once again.

He paused. He had not before considered public reaction when she did return to the stage. It was a sensational story and he could see the headlines now: _Singer Emerges from Dead, O.G's Living Bride… _Erik had nothing to speak of other then the mysteries of the Opera Ghost, but Christine's entire career depended on her reputation. Young, beautiful, talented and hidden away in the realm of the Phantom at his convenience, she would never be respectable again.

He doubted Christine would let him within three feet, let alone her bed, but it did not take the mind of a genius to predict what the rumors would say. He almost laughed out loud.

"Tomorrow." It would all have to wait until then.

For now, his hands itched like hell.

Leaving Ayesha to doze without further disturbance, he slipped quietly into the hallway and made his way towards the kitchen. The house was relatively silent as if in a deep sleep and he paused a moment in the hallway to listen.

Words often fail to convey the spirit of life's little mysteries and where they fall short, he had always felt only music may take over and fill in the holes. But even music falls short at some point, and the only way to truly know such phenomena is to live in the moment.

A faint rustle of fabric or the gentle distant lap of the lake came to his ears in their own, unique pattern. And yet they were all connected in some kind of super-natural melody; heavy and oppressive yet gentle and yielding. In moments like these, when the body is truly alone, you find the soul in perfect harmony with everything around it, like one lone star shining against the brilliance of an entire galaxy. And the only regret you feel in a near-perfect moment like this is that you have no one else to share the supreme joy of solitude. Erik had once called it the music of the night, but in its most organic form, it was night.

But such moments are fleeting, and his was broken when he heard a faint disturbance in the kitchen. Lightly, he made his way down the rest of the hallway and stopped right outside the doorframe.

Christine sat alone at the table; a light shawl on her shoulders and cup of fresh tea clutched protectively in her hands. Melted strands of curls hung loose over her shoulders and in her face. The battered remains of Don Juan lay open on the table, and she stared intently at the pages, but a blind man could see that she saw no words.

He stood silently for a moment, watching as she tried to rock herself into a comfortable stupor. Then slowly, he moved backwards into the shadows where he could watch her without fear of discovery.

Her hands seemed to tremble when she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and she whispered continuously to herself, "It was only a dream… It's not true."

She was weak, distraught, and completely impressionable. _She could be mine,_ he realized as she lifted a trembling hand to turn the pages of her book.

He took another step forward.

All it would take would be a song, something soft enough to pique her interest, but once she gave in, there would be no going back. He could keep her here forever on the influence of his voice and she would be happy. _I could make her happy._ She would never know another day of pain as long as he sang to her.

He must have made a noise, Christine's head suddenly snapped up and looked directly where he stood. "Erik? Is that you?"

He stood still, quietly inhaling.

"Erik?"

One song, that was all it would take and the world could go hang itself. She would be his again.

"Hello?"

Only one.

He turned on his heel, and left her alone in the dark.

Tomorrow, no more secrets.


	12. Stepping into Yesterday

_A/N: _

_Since I have loads of time now, I've gone back and fixed some of the minor details of the previous chapters. Nothing changed story wise, I just added a comma or spell-check where it was needed. _

_Also, According to my stats section, I am getting a few hits. So, please, if you like what you're reading leave a review. If you don't leave one anyway. _

_Happy New Year, everyone!_

* * *

**Chapter #12**

**Stepping into Yesterday**

The air of the auditorium was exactly as she remembered it; hot and sticky, with the faintest trace of human sweat. Not that she expected it to find it completely altered, but it was an odd feeling stepping back into yesterday as if nothing had changed. Everything had.

One thing that had not in the time since her disappearance was that Christine was not fond of the dark, especially in the auditorium of the Opera House. She had managed to find her way out of the catacombs after hours of fruitless tracking thankfully alive and intact. The way down might have been easy as Erik told her, but the way up was entirely different matter. She emerged somewhere in the backstage area completely flustered and unsure whether she would praise Erik's trapping skills, or clog him over the head with a heavy object. The heavy object was winning.

Given the circumstances, however, she could see how darkness could be useful.

"You're doing it wrong."

"Am not!"

She had stumbled onto two young ballerinas practicing their routines with as much expertise as ten-year-olds could muster. Not knowing what her reappearance would do to them, she watched the little girls twirl and spin from behind a backdrop until they made themselves sick. Their names escaped her, but she recalled some of the fresh faces of the younger petite rats.

"Are too!"

"Am not! And you can eat bugs for all I care."

One of them, a pudgy round thing with an ocean of brown hair, brushed her long locks over her shoulder. "Yes you are! You're not keeping your arms soft and if you don't straightened your legs you'll fall flat on your face."

The other one was the complete opposite of the first. Tall and skinny with flaming red hair, the girl was the spitting image of Brielle in the older ballet company, with her sister's sour attitude to match. "How would you know, anyway? You're about as graceful as a lemon."

Beth puffed twice her size with pride. "Madame told me so."

"You lie! Madame's been far too busy to pay attention to you."

Busy? Christine leaned farther over in her hiding spot and tried to ignore the absurdity of spying on ten year olds.

For all she knew, Erik could be watching her right now, waiting for the right moment to emerge and scare the life out of her. Maybe greeting the girls first wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

"She's not too busy for me, Lisette," the brunette insisted. "Madame Giry says I could be a protégé."

"You don't even know what that means. If you're such a protégé, Beth, why don't you show me?"

Beth nodded, accepting the challenge and straightened her round frame. She was quite graceful for such an oddly shaped girl and once she grew out of her baby fat, Christine could see why Madame Giry felt she could be successful. Beth lifted her arms above her head and raised herself up on her toes with practiced ease. She was flushed and smiled triumphantly at her bested friend, but her eyes shifted and she went as pale as if she had seen a ghost. In a manner of speaking, she had.

_Damn_! Christine thought. She would have to ask Erik how he did this so well.

Lisette, sensing something was wrong, place a hand on her friend's shoulder. "What is it?"

Beth pointed a trembling finger towards Christine. "Ma… Chr…."

Her friend turned and peered into the shadows. Seeing no escape, Christine emerged from her hiding spot. Over ten days without anyone to talk to, save an introverted madman, mired her basic social skills and she did her best to recall them as she stepped into full light.

"Mademoiselle Daae? Christine!"

"Hello girls, it's good to see you again."

She remembered the rabbit, the tiny bit of fluff running from her in the snow as she tried to save it and the small, innocent eyes wide with terror that grew with her every step closer. The girls didn't dare take her eyes off Christine as she walked across the stage and they clutched each other's arms and moved back as she crossed to stand in front of them.

Christine forced a pleasant smile." Been a while, hasn't it?"

Lisette, seeming to recover herself, dropped her friend's arm. "What are you doing here? Has the ghost let you go?"

She glanced nervously around herself as if mention his name would bring the Phantom's wrath upon them.

_If only,_ Christine thought wryly. She had been avoiding any thoughts on Erik or the consequences of leaving suddenly and unannounced, but she felt she would go mad if she stayed any longer in that house with those cold, lifeless eyes staring up at her in blood from her dream. Christine had spent the night with a cup of tea and battered book for company and found herself terribly homesick for Madame Giry and Meg. She'd gladly risk Erik's wrath to spend company with people that did not make her feel as if she were treading on very thin ice.

"Have either of you seen Madame Giry or Meg?" she asked changing the subject. Lisette glanced at Beth, who was not helping her at all and did not look to be so anytime soon.

"Madame had a meeting with the managers and Meg went into town for a new dress."

"Her other one got wet," Beth suddenly chirped. The girl was looking more like that rabbit by the minute.

"I see," Christine said, forcing down her disappointment. "Perhaps I should come back later when-"

"Are you here to sing, Mademoiselle? Carlotta said she would never sing again and we don't have a diva anymore."

Christine paused, not expecting such a pointed question. "I hope so, I'll have to see if the managers will have me, won't I?"

Her chance looked good, and with Carlotta out of the picture, there really was no one else to fill her spot. She could not hope for anything until she spoke with Madame Giry, first. If everyone believed her dead as these two did, there was no telling what the rest of the company would think. She may already be too late.

That was another area of conversation sorely avoided between the two of them. She wasn't Erik's prisoner, rather, she would not tolerate it, but their boundaries of acceptable behavior were still unclear and mutual respect could only go so far. Still, they had worked too long and too hard to let her voice go to waste and Erik had promised all of Paris at her feet.

There was a slight change in the girl's attitude and Christine recognized it as the need to ask a question one was afraid to voice. Lisette fiddled with a lock of fiery red hair and Beth continued to stare at her as if she expected Christine to vanish into thin air.

"Yes?" Christine said, helping them along.

"We were just wondering if you still could sing, Mademoiselle?" Christine sank to her knees in front of them and looked Lisette in the eyes. She had not sung since that night, and her voice would definitely be weak from lack of practice. But she could still sing and why the girl wondered was unclear to her.

"Why wouldn't I be able to, Lisette?"

Lisette bit furiously on her upper lip. "Well, Joseph Bouquet before he… well… before, he told us that the Opera Ghost would suck out your soul until you was just like him and you could only moan like one of them spirits."

She didn't laugh, but her stomach tightened with the effort not to. She placed a hand on each girl's shoulder and they nearly jumped out of their skin from the contact. "I'm still whole aren't I? As for singing…"

Christine stood up and straightened her frame. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and sang, "_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy… no dreams within her heart but dreams of love…"_

It was like coming home. Though weak, and a bit breathy, her voice rang clear throughout the auditorium and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She opened her voice again to recreate that feeling of total freedom, when she heard a low clapping in the theatre seats.

"Brava, Mademoiselle." Standing in the middle of the auditorium was the most beautiful women Christine had ever seen. Her clothing declared her a noblewoman, but she would have been just as stunning in rags. Fine boned and tall, an ocean of thick chestnut hair sat atop her head like a crown with a few loose tendrils falling onto flawless creamy skin.

The woman floated down the walkway and stopped in front of the orchestra pit. Up close, Christine could see she had not exaggerated the woman's beauty. Her eyes were dark violet, almost black and the age lines surrounding them and her mouth gave the impression of unchanging grace. While finely dressed, she wore very little jewelry, only an aqua marine ring on her left hand and an amber pendant on her amble chest.

She dismissed the girls with barely a glance and ran her eyes over the length of Christine. She cocked her head. "Are you going to come down, or will I be forced to suffer a stiff neck?"

The girls practically feel over themselves coming down the stage steps and Christine followed a few feet behind on better footing.

"That's better. Are you quite well, Christine?" Christine was silent, watching the woman as she tried to place who she was. She knew most of the patrons of the opera as well as their wives and mistresses, but this one was a complete mystery. If she had not detected a familiar pulse in the woman's speech, she would have thought her a local noblewoman, newly released from martial solitude.

She had tried to come up with some fantastic story to explain her absence, but it seemed that silence would be the best course. If she could avoid it, she did not want to speak of her current living situation as much for Erik as herself. The truth was unbelievable even to her. "Excuse me, Madame, but who are you?"

"Oh, excuse me," the woman extended a graceful hand. "I am Lady Kathrina Deveraux, newly arrived from Munich."

Christine accepted her hand. "Is this your first visit to Paris, my lady?"

"First, definitely. As for visit, I came here to be with my fiancée. I must say, though, your customs and men are a bit more forward then I expected. A welcome surprise, that," the lady laughed and it sounded hollow to Christine's ears. "Enough of me, though, we should get you back to the managers. Girls?"

Lisette and Beth, emerged from behind Christine and looked loathe to came under the noblewoman's scrutiny.

"Go and see if you can find Mademoiselle's desired companions. Tell no one else you have seen her. Is that clear?" the girls nodded. "_Go!"_

After the pair had skipped out of sight, Christine ventured, "You said you are to marry. May I ask to who?"

"You may, but you already know him. Come, let's see if we can find him. I'm afraid he's wandered off again." Looping her arm in Christine's, Lady Deveraux led them towards the nearest exit. The woman was at least six inches taller then Christine, and she had to nearly run to keep up with her long strides.

"I've heard of you, you know," she said not breaking her pace, "long before you became a Parisian diva."

"You knew my father?"

The lady shook her head. "No, my dear, _you_. I saw you years ago when you sang with your father at the fairs."

"We have never been to Germany."

"I didn't say Germany, did I? No, it was at a fair somewhere north of Yorkshire."

It was entirely possible, her father had taken her so many places before his death she could hardly keep track of them all. Something about the woman, though, made her uneasy, like she was suddenly back on display again at one of those fairs.

They turned another corner. "You have been to England?"

"Yes, unfortunately. My first husband was English." She could feel she was threading on dangerous ground with this woman and was at lost with what to say that would not be used against her.

"I am sure he had other qualities to redeem himself, my lady." Kathrina snorted and burst into laughter that stopped Christine in her tracks. She laughed so hard, a cleaning woman emerged from her regular duties to offer assistance but Christine waved her away, offering Kathrina a handkerchief and wondered what she had done to bring on such a strong reaction.

"Oh, Christine! You are a complete delight! What has that ghost been doing, hiding you away?" she accepted the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "You simply must dine with me sometime. I don't think I've laughed this hard in ages!"

Kathrina looped her arm in Christine's again and resumed their trek through the opera halls. The normal bustle of activity was practically non-existent, and aside from a few of the cleaning staff, they met no one on their search. Christine was about to ask the lady's fiancée once again, when they turned a corner and ran into the Comte de Changy and Meg Giry.

"Philippe, my love, what are you doing here? I've brought Mademoiselle Daae with-"

The noblewoman's introduction was drowned out by a cry from Meg. "Christine! My god, is it really you?"

Meg flew into her friend's hands and squeezed until she felt she might break. Christine's heart swelled feeling this kind of loving companionship that had been absent all this time. She stroked Meg's golden locks and muttered relieved nothings into her ear.

"I missed you so much! I can't believe you're back!" her friend muttered into her hair. "I tried to get them to come find you, but they wouldn't listen! Oh, Christine!"

"I missed you too, Meg, so very much," Christine said, resting a hand on her friend's rosy check.

Meg untangled herself and held Christine by the shoulders away from her. "But how did you escape? What happened?"

She took in Christine's haggard appearance, flustered and obviously sleep deprived, Meg tugged on one of her friend's loose melted curls and tucked it behind her ear. She was about to ask about it when a cough from the Comte alerted them to their presence. Though exercising a length of good breeding, Philippe was watching the exchange with frank interest. Lady Kathrina look mildly bored. Though she lacked the extensive social skills of the noble couple, Christine thought it would be best to save the tearful reunions for a private location.

"I'll tell you everything later, Meg, but not now."

Meg frowned. "You promise?"

"Yes, later," Christine untangled herself from Meg and curtsied toward the Comte. "Monsieur le Comte."

"_Bonjour_, Christine. It is good to see you again."

_Not bloody likely_, Christine thought. She had not seen Philippe de Changy in over seven years, not since that summer spent by the sea with Raoul, but she could see very little had changed in that time. Though older and subsequently wiser, he still looked on her as some lowly insect. He had never approved of his brother's relationship with the violinist's daughter and it did not look like he had changed his mind on the matter. Philippe loved his brother dearly and was ruthless to anything that threatened Raoul's happiness.

He had been absent for some time on business, as Raoul had explained to her, and missed most of the events of the last year and a half at the opera house. Instead of a happy return to homeland and family, he had found scandal and a brother nearly broken by grief. Philippe was a good man, and he had every reason to treat her like the dirt he probably thought she was.

Christine felt a jolt of grief at the memory. It would be different, easier probably, if their good-bye had not been made so quickly with the shadow of Erik looming over them. She could not say for certain that she wished she had been let go that night, but with the loss of Raoul's engagement ring, she felt mildly cheated of his memory.

Lady Deveraux steeped forward and looped her arm in the Comte's the same as she had earlier with Christine. "Christine, may I present my fiancée, the Comte de Changy. Mademoiselle Daae was kind enough to help me look for you when you went missing, my dear."

The Comte coughed. "No need, Kathrina. I got a bit lost and Meg here was kind enough to show me the way back. My thanks, Meg."

Meg glanced at her feet. "None needed, monsieur, just don't wander too far from your fiancée in the future."

"I'll do that," he said, patting his partner's arm. "Since we're all found, perhaps we should go find the managers. They'll be very pleased to see you, Christine."

"Yes, and mother too," Meg said, grabbing onto her arms as if to keep her from fleeing. "We have a lot to discuss, Christine. But I think that can wait for later."

With Lady Kathrina on hand, the Comte turned and led them out of the opera hallways towards the manager's office.

They had walked in silence for some time, when Christine leaned over to whisper in Meg's ear. "What's going on?"

But Meg shook her head. "Not now, Christine."

"Why not?" She looked up the length of the hallway. Lisette and Beth had just emerged from an office doorway and waved furiously when they saw her.

"Same reason you're not telling me anything, Christine. Walls have ears." She gestured towards the couple ahead of him, discussing the various art and furnishings of the hallway, apparently below their taste.

Madame Giry emerged moments later followed by Andre and Firmin. Cries of astonishment reached her and she turned one last time to her friend before she could be whisked away again. "Fine, but you owe me an explanation, Meg. If that man was really lost, then I'll eat my boots."

Meg's frown deepened. "You have no idea, Christine. No idea."


	13. An Interview and a Corpse

_A/N: Thanks to Shogunate for the heads up on the reviews, I had no idea I had the thing blocked. Thanks again!_

_I took on Leroux liberty in this part._

_Sorry for the delay.

* * *

_

Chapter #13

An Interview and a Corpse

Whoever this man was, or had been, he had no place in opera. Rough edged and weather –beaten as he was, he might have been a crewmember, but Erik knew every man to come under the opera's employment since its inception, and this man was not among them.

Erik poked the man's soft middle. Definitely not a dancer, he thought and chuckled to himself.

A gypsy. Erik would know that stink till his dying day and loathe it even more. It was obvious why the man had wondered into the cellars; every spare inch of his body was armed with daggers, pistols, and an oddly shaped ax.

Murder. Gypsies were incredibly good at it and he would know, he had been their greatest student.

Erik sat back on his heels and studied the body. Blood flowed from the man's head wound, but no longer as a means to heal. The man's ugly, but still bearable features had taken on a bluish tint that marked the spirits passing, and may he rot wherever he was.

Erik had not killed him intentionally, merely helped him along. After following Christine and delivering a note to Madame Giry, he found the body somewhere in the third cellar. The fool had not even fallen prey to one of this traps, he lost his footing and cracked his head open.

Cursing his luck and dreading the tedious work of disposing the body, Erik knelt at the man's side only to discover he was still breathing.

There was no hope for it, the man would die eventually. Better by his quick hand then the slow agony of blood loose. Erik placed a bandaged hand over the nose and mouth and held on until the body was still.

Erik massaged his temples. This really was a bad time to start worrying about assassination attempts and the implications behind this were staggering. Whoever wanted him dead wanted it done as quietly as possible. It immediately ruled out Andre and Firmin. The fools would send mob and auction his ugly carcass to the highest bidder if it meant they'd make a profit. No, someone working on their own, someone with more then money at stake. Erik tried to recall his long list of enemies as he hauled the body over his shoulder.

Luckily, Christine had gone up one of the safer passages with the fewest traps and he followed her to make sure of where she was going. He could have easily stopped her. A simple trick of ventriloquism would send her running back to him, or possibly the other way. Better to see if she came back on her own just as she'd promised, just as he hoped she would.

Easy passage or not, it hardly mattered, he realized as he adjusted the body on his shoulder.

It was cold in the streets, practically freezing and his breath came out in tiny clouds of moisture. The sun was hidden behind a cloud, offering little light, but Erik knew well where he was going. Occasional glances and murmurs of not being able to hold one's liquor were thrown his way by passing Parisians, but most left him alone. He made sure the body hid his masked side. The prostitute and her client did not even acknowledge him as he dumped the body in a trash heap. Hidden in plain sight was a better option then submerged in his own lake. Bodies had a habit of floating at inappropriate times.

The Rue Scribe wasn't empty when he returned. A grand carriage sat alone in the middle of the street with a woman wrapped in furs next to it, stomping her feet in a vein attempt to keep warm.

"Hadn't we better go, my lady?" the driver called from his perch. "The Comte won't be happy if you're late."

"Just a few more moments, Luca. He'll be here soon enough."

The woman resumed her ungraceful stomping, pausing to warm her hands. She was alone, unescorted, and her carriage was unfamiliar. Still there was something in her look that stirred a memory from long ago, long before his gift of memory became a curse.

A strong gust of wind nearly knocked her off balance and she grabbed the carriage door to steady herself. The air sent his cape fluttering like wings in the wind and the woman stilled when she caught sight their flight.

For a moment, neither moved. Erik took in the woman's striking features and she drank in the sight of the legendary Opera Ghost. Erik did not bother to conceal himself; no one would believe what she had seen.

Beneath the woman's beaver skinned hat, she paled an unnatural white and muttered something under her breath. She climbed up into the carriage without assistance and ordered the driver to leave immediately.

It was not until the carriage turned round the corner that Erik realized she had called him "The Living Corpse."

* * *

Christine left the manager's office feeling like a gutted fish. _A chair_, she thought wildly, _I need a bloody chair! _

A small crowd had gathered outside, faces etched in excitement to catch a glimpse of the phantom's prisoner. They were all disappointed to see Christine looked almost same as she had before, only less distant and much more irritable. Had she the energy, she would have glared right back at them, daring them to say anything. She gave herself up to exhaustion instead, and tried to make her way through the crowd of cleaning staff and workmen. Most were happy to remove themselves from her path, but the rest she had to push through to find herself some place to sit down and think.

"Mademoiselle! Please wait!" a voice called behind her. She ignored it and increased her pace.

She found the dance room empty and blissfully sank down onto a lone bench with a sigh of pleasure. Christine leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, wishing herself deep within the confines of her bed, far away from the eyes of the world.

If there had been any doubt Erik knew where she had gone, it was dashed when Madame Giry read the latest correspondence from O.G in the manager's office. A new season was to begin with her claiming lead Soprano as Aminta. Cast, save for the unfortunate absence of Carlotta and Piangi, would remain the same. The ending was being rewritten and would be delivered to management and cast at the composer's convenience. Till then, rehearsal would resume at the usual time and continue until opening night, one month from now.

A month, two, or even eight did not seem enough. The part was hers- had always been- but it was not a part she had ever taken willingly. Before, it had been performed to lure him out, and silence the opera ghost forever. Now, it was staged on his terms, a towering testimate to the power of the Phantom of the Opera, and still she was no more then a pawn.

She heard the unmistakable footsteps of Meg Giry approach her. No one else would be so brave now, and no one else walked as naturally as they danced. Christine kept her eyes closed, breathing deeply and willed her heart slow to a quiet pulse in her chest.

"Well that went well," Meg said, in a cherry tone that made Christine want to throttle her. "As well as can be expected at least."

Christine cracked open an eye.

"At least," she said and opened the other.

Meg had flatly refused to leave her side when Andre and Firmin dragged her inside their office. While they threw questions at her from both sides, Madame Giry and Meg had stood behind and deflected the more personal ones she did not have an answer for. Iron resolve seemed to be a common Giry characteristic, and Christine was grateful to have it on her side.

"Considering everything that could have happened, I'll stick with what I said. Here," Meg placed neatly folded envelope in her hand. "Brielle told me this was left for you."

Christine thanked Meg and opened the envelope. The de Changy crest was imprinted on the top and for a moment the once- slow pulse raced before she noticed the script bore no resemblance to Raoul's familiar copperplate hand. The writing was elegant and very feminine.

_My Dear Mlle Daae, _

_Please accept my humblest apologies for our abrupt departure but I fear the discussion was not meant for the ears of a Comte and his fiancée. _

_I insist you take me up on my offer and dine with me this Sunday at my temporary residence with Madame Ferry. You may send word through Phillip's valet next time he is at the Opera house. Do not disappoint me, my dear. I look forward to your answer._

The note was signed with surprising flourish by Lady Deveraux.

Christine let the note fall to her lap. For an entire ten seconds, she said nothing. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Meg untied the laces of her left boot one by one, and tossed it under the bench without a care. With the meeting clouding her mind, Christine had almost forgotten the odd noblewoman and questionable circumstances when she'd come upon her best friend. She resisted the urge to question her, hoping she would tell her instead. Her friend said nothing and started work on the right.

"I don't want you to go see her, Christine," Meg said suddenly, finishing her work.

Christine was taken back. "What? Why?"

"She's not a good woman," Meg said simply. "Anyone can see it. And she's staying with Jules Ferry's wife. The woman is a complete fool."

"And you're in both their confidence?"

"No," Meg answered. "But I have learned opera gossip has more ground then most think. I wouldn't trust either woman any farther then the end of my nose."

Meg stood up and walked over to the nearest practice bar. She raised her leg onto the highest bar and reached towards her toes. The raw talent she exuded with every graceful sway of her limbs was purely her own, honed to perfection by her mother.

Standing tall with her arms arched over her head, it was easy to see the woman Meg would be and the woman she already was. A woman with the maturity to keep a lover like the Philippe de Changy.

"Meg, what were you doing with the Comte?"

Meg stopped her movements and turned to face her. No change, but the lines around her mouth seemed to tense. A quick pivot of her hips and her foot landed on the hardwood floors with a bang.

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you have so little faith in me, Christine?"

No, never, possibly. How could she when she'd seen them as she did? She had to wonder why it mattered to her and why not knowing hurt so much.

Because she was afraid.

Because so much had changed.

Because she couldn't bear to think her best friend could be so careless.

Meg did not wait for her to reply. "I didn't _do_ anything. I found him coming out of the dormitories moments before I saw you. Whoever he was meeting, it wasn't me."

Relief washed over her in waves, followed by shame. She should have known. She glanced at Meg expecting hostility, almost wishing for it, but Meg glanced back at her impassive and gave no sign of offence.

Meg resumed her position next to the bar. Christine stared down at the envelope laying next to her on the bench. The curved letters seemed to be written in another language and she studied them, hoping a sign lay hidden in the ink.

"I'm sorry," Christine finally said, and once again, Meg lowered her leg from the bar. It came down gentler this time and landed with a dull thud on the hardwood surface.

"You should be," Meg answered. "You've insulted my taste, Christine. I've met walls more interesting then that man."

Christine stared at her.

"It was a joke."

Meg sighed at Christine's ignorance and raised her arms into proper form. Her mind centered on the movements of her body and she forgot everything around her, save her own breathing and the bar on her left side. For now, Christine was forgiven.

First, then second position, third, and breath. Repeat. First, then second, third, and breath. Christine watched her go through the motions and followed along in her mind.

Christine picked up the envelope and held it up to the one gaslight in the practice room. "Then the real question is, who was he meeting?"

First, then second… and Meg stopped.

"No it's not," Meg came to stand in front of her. "That's not the question at all."

Christine almost shut her eyes against her stare. She knew this had been coming the moment she'd laid eyes on Meg in the hallway.

What would she even say? That being with Erik filled her with so much terror and longing she could barely breath? Or that she woke up screaming seeing death in her mind's eye and couldn't remember whom it was she mourned?

Christine felt Meg tug a melted lock from her hair and twist it around her fingers. "Has he hurt you?"

The hand that had held her hair a moment ago let go and picked up Christine's left arm. Christine looked at the bruised wrist Meg held.

"Yes," she said slowly. "But not in the way you think."

Meg nodded and twisted her wrist so she could see it more clearly in the light. "Have you hurt him?"

"Everyday," she whispered.

Meg let go of the wrist and took Christine's face in her hands. It was so different from the last time she had seen her. She felt as if she held a stranger. There was so much she wanted to ask, but she remembered what she had told the Vicomte and did her best to keep silent.

The quiet stillness of the dance room was broken when the door opened and La Sorelli walked in. She gave no sign of surprise at seeing Christine or the position they were in and greeted them both with a polite nod. Both girls returned the gesture; both disappointed to have their privacy invaded too soon.

Sorelli wasted no time with pleasantries. "Meg, your mother is looking for you."

Meg frowned and brought her hands down from Christine's face. "She is?"

Sorelli nodded. "Yes, something about the upcoming season."

Her mother would know she'd want to be alone for a while with Christine and all plans for the new season would wait until negotiations with the management were settled. But she conceded anyway, seeing nothing no excuse to reject Sorelli's message. "Alright. Christine, will you be here when I get back?"

"Of course, go ahead." Christine waited until Meg had left the room before turning to Sorelli. "Is everything all right with Madame Giry?

"I wouldn't know," Sorelli sat down next to Christine on the bench. Christine fought the urge to scoot back, only because she was on the end of the bench. "Christine, I need your help."

"My help?" Sorelli nodded and grabbed Christine's hand. Christine let out a squeak of surprise and Sorelli's eyes darted to the doorway to see if anyone heard.

"Christine," she whispered. "Can you keep a secret?"

She had never cared for Sorelli and she suspected, neither did she. Sorelli was popular with the patrons and invited to all their grand affairs as a special guest. Their paths hardly ever crossed, but when they did, Christine got the impression Sorelli thought she was lower then dirt.

She was not haughty now and she looked quiet desperate.

"Yes, but what about Jammes?" To all appearance, the two were best friends, but Sorelli waved her hand, dismissing the notion entirely.

"Jammes is the biggest gossip in Paris. If I told her, everyone would know."

"Know what?"

Her hands were warm to the touch, but they trembled fiercely in Christine's. Then, is if it took great effort, Sorelli press Christine's hands to her lower abdomen. Christine felt the fabric of her dress and the outlines of the dancer's whalebone corset, and underneath, she felt Sorelli's own warmth and a young knot, no bigger then a tangerine.

"Oh… Sorelli. Who?"

The young mother gave her a devastating smile and shook her head.

"Does he know?"

"It doesn't matter, Christine. I'm just a dancer and he's…I knew from the beginning how it would be. He even told me, but I didn't listen." Sorelli released her hand and let it fall to her lap.

It wasn't very obvious, but the dancer did have a kind of healthy glow about her. Her face was only a tiny bit fuller, and her cheeks redder, but it was there. A few more weeks and it would be obvious to anyone who saw her, like the father who might not even care.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I've heard there are … things you can do, but I'm not sure yet."

Long ago, when she had first entered the conservator, a dancer, not older then Christine was now, had sought help after being abandoned by her lover. Rumor had it that she enlisted such help and within six hours of her visit, they found the girl dead under her blankets. Every member of the corps knew the story, including Sorelli.

Sorelli brought her voice down lower. "I want you to come with me. There's a place, a woman who can help me. I… I don't want to go alone. You've always been so kind Christine. Even after the nasty things I said after the gala." Sings like a crock, if Meg had told her correctly. "I have no right to ask, but I would appreciate it if you came with me to see her on Sunday."

Christine tapped her foot on the hardwood floor, considering what to do. Sunday, Lady Deveraux had invited her to eat with Madame Ferry. Denial was not an option she could afford to make against the Comte's future wife or the wife of France's minister of foreign affairs. And there was always the matter of Erik. Damage had been done with this little trip no matter how innocent, but Sorelli was looking at her with pleading eyes and begging her for help.

"What time?"

Sorelli's somber face light up with the possibility of acceptance. "Early, before mass. I'll have a carriage waiting outside your flat."

Christine paused. "My flat?"

"Yes, you still live there, right?"

She had never been a good liar, yet it came out easily. "Yes, of course, I'll be ready."

Loud footsteps and an imperious voice announced arrival of Firmin, his trusty Andre in tow, and both the Girys. Meg looked at her questioningly, but Christine only shrugged. Sorelli straightened her body and tried to look as ordinary as possible. She never would be again in Christine's mind.

Andre quickly honed in on Christine's presence and plastered a smile on his face. "Ah! Mademoiselle Delaflote, I see you have found our La Daae. I trust you are well, mademoiselle, you left our office rather quickly."

Christine exchanged a glance with Sorelli. "I'm fine, monsieur, just a little tired."

"Good, glad to hear it. And I've been informed you're to dine with Lady Deveraux! Excellent news!"

Madame Giry cleared her throat. "Mademoiselle has accepted no invitation yet, Monsieur."

"Of course not, but this is an opportunity for you, mademoiselle. You might say your fate and the fate of everyone under this roof." Madame Giry glared at him, but he gave no sign of stopping. "With Lady Deveraux's friendship, you may be able to secure the future patronage of the future patronage of the de Changy's. Opera cannot only rely on ticket sales, you know."

"I thought that was your responsibility," Meg said, not attempting to hide it under her breath.

Madame Giry resumed her matronly tone and tapped her cane against the hardwood floor. The sound stopped Andre from continuing. "Monsieur Andre, it has been a long day for the girls. They should be getting home."

It had been a long day for everyone in the room, but Andre seemed more concerned about the financial future of his business then the collective health of everyone in the room. His partner seemed to sense his and grabbed Andre by the sleeve.

"Yes, we'll settle everything later. Come along, Andre, I'm sure your wife is eager to have you home." He resisted at first, but Firmin succeeded in dragging his partner out of the ballet room. Left alone now, Madame Giry wasted no time in directing the girls' next coarse of action.

"Sorelli, go home and take care of your father." The dancer squeezed Christine's and Christine returned it as a promise to see things through on Sunday. She felt mildly sick at what she had agreed to do.

Madame Giry turned her attention to her daughter. "Meg, say goodbye to Christine. You'll see her later."

"But Mama-"

"Now." For a moment, Meg almost looked as if she would disobey her mother. She had barely broached what she had intended with Christine and the few answers she received from her were not enough to satisfy. She relented however, and gave Christine a farewell hug.

"Find me, next rehearsal," she whispered in Christine's ear, then followed Sorelli out into the hallway.

Christine waited patiently for her own order. She concentrated again on her breathing, bringing down the beat of her heart, and suppressing the panic she always felt when faced with a situation she couldn't simply lie her way out of. She hated doing it and did so rarely, but every once in a while, the truth was not only damaging, it was unthinkable. Telling Erik about Raoul had been so and now telling the life she had lived these past days was as well.

She never lied to her best friend, but she never always told her the whole truth either. Madame Giry was the closest thing she had for a mother since the death of her own. But she was not hers, and her motivations did not always run in Christine's favor.

Madame would know in an instant if she lied. She knew far too much to be fooled. The urge she felt to hide during the interview with the managers was back now and she shrunk under the weight of her imminent confession.

"Christine, look at me." She obeyed and found Madame's expressive eyes looking kindly on her, as she'd often seen her look at her own daughter.

"You'll do fine, Christine. Now go, someone is waiting for you."

* * *

She felt him long before she found him.

He was waiting for her in her mirror. He said nothing as she closed the dressing room door behind her and merely stared at her as if she were no more interesting then the furniture. His hat was tilted at its usually angle and the cloak about his shoulders made him nothing more then a formless mass of black. He was an impressive sight, but much less so without his voice.

Christine wondered for a moment if he meant to punish her and she was slightly angry at the thought. No matter what she had done, no matter what she did not tell him, her presence here should be enough to tell him she had not betrayed any promise.

The light flickering of a candle caught her eye and on the vanity, she saw a single red rose. The pedals still clung to each other from the fear of existence and death that lay behind it. Christine touched its smooth surface and smiled to herself.

She picked up the single bud and held it against her chest, giving her own warmth as a gift to the fragile rose. For the second time that day, she raised her voice in song.

"_Holy Angel, in Heaven blessed… My spirit longs with thee to rest!"_

He held a hand out to her, clumsily bandaged, but still held with infinite grace. She took it and thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, not quite reaching a smile.

They were silent the entire way down.


	14. Gravlax

**Chapter #14 **

**Gravlax**

* * *

Their journeys together were always made in silence and tonight was no exception.

Occasionally, he warned her of slippery footing or stray vermin, but no more. Talking might break this small truce and nether were prepared to take that step. Not yet.

The boat was waiting for them on the banks of the lake as Christine had left it this morning. Half-floating on an unseen current, it could have been any vessel on any lake. But most lakes did not have a Siren, nor a sailor with a death's head mask.

Christine climbed into the boat before Erik could offer any assistance. He was always a foreboding presence, yet today there was a certain stiffness in his usual grace. Pole in hand, he climbed in behind her and cast-off with an awkward jab. The boat swayed under the force and Christine rocked in her seat. She glanced at him as he speared the water like he would a live animal, but his eyes were fixed on the craggy ridge on the opposite side.

Perhaps he truly was mad at her? Christine wondered, not for the first time that day, if Erik had followed her. Don Juan, the management, and his appearance in her dressing room were too much of a coincidence. Nothing ever happened with Erik by chance.

Christine dipped a hand in the icy depths of lake. She watched as the ripples grew beyond her reach. She lifted her arm for a few moments and let the water slide off her fingers. The _drip drip_ of the droplets was barely heard over the violent strokes of Erik's pole. She did not need to see his face to know it was etched in a fierce scowl.

He knew, he had to known. How he felt about it was questionable, but she could guess by the way he steered the boat. What he meant to do with her was a mystery.

Christine raised her hand from the water again and rubbed it against her thigh. She felt no regrets about what she had done and if he planned on scolding her for her actions, she could certainly say a few things on some of his. But the last thing she wanted was another confrontation. What did want was a return to the earlier days of their relationship when she was merely his adoring student and he, her devoted teacher.

_Foolish girl_, she reprimanded herself. _You know you can never go back._

Christine sighed and rested her head on the side of the boat.

When they reached the other side, Christine allowed Erik to help her onto the shore. His hands lingered a moment after he had helped her to her feet. When she looked up to meet his eyes, he withdrew and disappeared into the house.

In his hasty retreat, Erik had forgotten to secure the boat. With no rope or pole in site, it floated aimlessly near the water's edge. Christine had never seen what Erik did with it upon docking, her mind usually compromised by his overwhelming presence, but such carelessness was uncommon in him.

Christine reached out and grasped the starboard side of the boat. The wood was damp and slipped out of her grasp. She tried again, this time achieving a solid grip, but it left here in an awkward position swaying dangerously towards the water.

There was no tide to speak of under the lake and the chances of it drifting too far were slim. Still, if she did let go, she might compromise her only means of independent exit. Erik's good humor was unstable at best and she could not see him letting her come and go as she pleased.

She was loosing her grip and the surface of the water was closer then ever. She lost hold of the boat with a wet _squeak_ and it rocked from side to side seeming to relish its newfound freedom.

Accepting defeat, Christine shrugged. The Siren could always bring it back.

As Christine entered doorway, a faint, unobtrusive tune floated through the hallways of the house. Music was life's blood in his home and she had gotten used to the long hours Erik spent composing, playing, simply living the music, yet this was not the rich mournful sounds she knew. Erik's passionate and demanding personality often seeped into his music expression. So many times, Christine had been pulled into the chords he coaxed from his instruments until nothing existed for her beyond his wall of sound.

Now, she felt she was no more than herself. Her mind was her own and she was a detached presence appreciating the beauty of his music.

She found him in the piano room. No paper sat on the piano but his hands flew over the keys as if he had played the unfamiliar tune a thousand times. All the awkwardness and tension of their journey back to his home was gone and in its place was the confident maestro she had come to admire.

Although she did not know if the song had any words, she suddenly wished to sing. Her day had probably been just as stressful as his and she longed for the release of music.

As if reading her thoughts, Erik ended the song with an E flat major chord and asked, "Would you care for your lesson now, Christine?"

Christine sat up in her seat, eager to say yes, but stopped herself when she noticed his hands.

"It can wait," she said, nodding towards the bandages. "I would not want you to harm yourself."

Erik held up one hand and examined it. The fingers were free from confinement but still red. He flexed one slowly and watched it with a critical eye.

"If anything, I'd appreciate the practice. Soar fingers would be the least of my worries if you do not rehearse your part. Now," under his hands, the beginning strains of a familiar warm up played true, "begin on 'ah.'"

Her voice, while still beautiful, was far below its usual luster. She sounded more the awkward youth in the conservatory she had been than the triumphant La Daae she had become on stage. The small performance for Lisette and Beth had hinted at the possibility, but to hear the full effects of her inattention was enough to make cry. The once crystal-clear notes of her upper register were just beyond her reach and she chased them with single-minded determination.

She could do this. She _would_ do this. It was who she was.

Erik slammed his hands onto the keys and the piano let out a painful wail.

"I will not have you doing that!" he shouted and Christine jumped. The confrontation she'd expected since their reunion was here.

Christine cleared her exhausted throat and braced herself. "I will do as I please, Erik. You're not my jailer."

She was quite proud of how it came out: determined, if not a little weak.

"I…am…your…. teacher, Christine. I will not have you ruin what I have worked to build!" the words barley made it out in his anger and Christine blinked, confused.

"What are you talking about?"

He pointed to a high E on the piano.

"I've heard diseased cats sound better than you just did! If you cannot sing it easily, then don't! I would rather you do something as simple as _Hannibal_ than ruin your voice over pride!"

Christine could not bare to look at him anymore and stared at her shoes instead. "Oh. I see."

Erik extended a hand to her, wanting to comfort her, but his courage failed him. Those small spaces of time where she allowed touch were no longer enough for him. His longing only increased each passing day in close proximity to her with each moment where he felt her living heat through the fabric of her clothes. There would come a time when he would loose control, the only thing to do would be to wait and see.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "You are to be Aminta again. You will be in time, but do not rush things you cannot overcome yet."

He wondered if this was to himself as much as it was to her.

When Christine looked up, Erik's hand was in his lap.

"Alright," she said and resumed her stance next to the piano.

One hand flexed over the keys before he played the opening strains of a warm up once again. "On 'ah.'"

* * *

"This is delicious!" Christine exclaimed through a mouthful of food. "What is it called?"

Erik shoved a mound of his own to the side of the plate.

"You like it, then? The layman's term is Dill Salmon, but I think you would know it better as _Gravlax_."

"Gravlax," she rolled the familiar word over her tongue as she had the dish. "I think I've heard of it. May I have another?"

She helped herself to another serving and shoved a considerable amount into her mouth. She had earned the right to be hungry tonight, Erik mused. Their lesson had been over two hours long with few brakes. At the end, her voice was still below its usual power, but they had made some progress. He avoided Don Juan for practical reasons and focused mainly on breathing. She resisted at first but gradually eased under his guidance. When he was satisfied, he allowed her to try a few fold songs and some of the easier works he had composed for her months ago. She did not want to end and almost put up a fight, but a telltale rumble from her stomach ended the lesson for the evening.

Erik took advantage of her full mouth and spoke, "I'm surprised you have never had it before. It is a Swedish dish, correct?"

Christine extracted a bone from between her teeth and nodded. "I've heard of it before, but I don't believe I've had it. I think… perhaps my mother made something of it when she was alive. But after her death, my father and I left and there was never any time for…" Christine's voiced trailed off.

So long ago, yet only three years since that night. Her father came home nearly delirious with fever and had been gone before morning. Three years of grief and silence with only memories for comfort, till a voice called her from the mirror.

Erik was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. Without a word, he stood and disappeared out the door. Christine cursed her wine. It had been such a pleasant evening and she ruined it words on a man who would never- could never- come back.

He returned moments later carrying a small box under his arm. He placed it beside her plate and resumed his spot across from her. The Gravlax absorbed his attention and he pushed it from side to side to avoid Christine's curious gaze.

The box was no longer then her forearm and resembled a very small coffin. The last remnant of the wine's good humor evaporated as she touched the wooden surface.

Slowly, she raised the lid… and gasped.

"No one need know where you go after rehearsal, Christine. That opens the gate on the Rue Scribe. Use it wisely."

The object seemed out of place among the velvet interior. She touched the warn, brass surface and a shudder went through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Thank you," she whispered. She removed it and tucked it into the deep pocket of her gown. Freedom lay for her in the form of a brass key. Freedom, or was it trust? She didn't deserve either. How could she, when her first thoughts with this new gift were on how to betray it?

Sorelli had asked for discretion and she had given it. She would not tell anyone what had happened between the dancer and her lover nor how Sorelli planned to solve the unexpected problem. On Sunday, she would tell Erik she planned to attend mass with Meg. A carriage would be waiting for her near her old residence to take them to a woman who would help Sorelli. If all went well, she would be back in time to prepare herself for dinner with the Comte's fiancée. Erik would know only what she told him and this small trust they were building would already be in jeopardy.

"Christine, I hope I have not upset you. That was not my intention at all."

"No, it's not that. I…." The key pressed against her thigh, as painful as a butcher's knife.

"You do not need to accept the key. If you wish," he had to force out his next words, "you may return to your life above."

Return to life at the opera with Meg, Madame, and… Raoul? The pain at their separation had lessened and she no longer longed for him in the way she once did. Her mind and life were now filled with Erik but the thought of her childhood friend was still very attractive. She remembered the night when Erik had dangled her engagement ring in front of her as evidence to her treachery and wondered if it would be worse the next time. She did not doubt there would be another time.

"Thank you, Erik. I … I must go to bed now."

She left him with the Gravlax and unspoken promises for company.

* * *

_A/N: My livejournal contains any and all explanations for my lack of updates. It's a bit difficult to write fan fiction in a semi-third world country. All reviews are appreciated so please leave one._

_Cheers! M_


	15. Through the Water

_A/N: Huge HUGE warning about this chapter. I am not advocating the actions take by the characters, nor am I suggesting anyone should try to use the remedies explored here. They are used merely for the advancement of this story and nothing more. I'm sure my professor from Anthro 101: Race, Gender, and Medicine would wish me to explain that while some of these remedies have been used extensively in the past and sparingly during the rise of western medicine, they are neither entirely effective nor safe. Talk to your doctor, family, or local religious leader for expert opinions, but not me.  
That said, if anyone's still reading this (and what a dear heart you are) reviews keep me going and iron out the kinks. Tell me what you think.

* * *

_

**Chapter #15**

**Through The Water**

The price of freedom was that all the cold of late winter seemed to be concentrated in the tip of Christine's nose. She lost feeling in the first quarter hour waiting for Sorelli, and by the third, she had to touch it to make sure it was still there.

The neighborhood of her former flat was startlingly familiar. The same children played in the streets, the same vendors sold goods on street corners, and the same near-sighted landlady ignored her on her way to daily mass. She tried not to assign any significance to the fact that everyone she had known in seemed as interested in her has the snow. No one noticed she had disappeared and no one seemed to care she was back. Erik would have noticed, but even he seemed more interested in the revisions to Don Juan than her outing this morning. Christine sighed and leaned against her former building, indulging in her own self pity.

She watched a young boy trail after a passing gentleman, begging for kindness. When the gentleman refused, the boy relieved him of his purse anyway and disappeared into an alley. The gentleman continued on his path and tipped his hat to her as he passed her own the streets.

_We do what we must_, she thought and waved back.

Moments later, a small carriage arrived and the hooded figure of Sorelli beckoned her in. No words of greeting were exchanged and it seemed the passing scenery was far more interesting to the dancer then her new companion.

It never ceased to amaze Christine how easily people wore their contradictions. There was grief in the dancer's eyes, but also confusion and bitterness. Sorelli's fists were clenched in her lap and her limps were rigidly arranged as if she expected to fight at any moment. Whenever the carriage jostled against the rough streets, her hands clutched her lower abdomen.

Despite her explanation of a 'good heart,' Christine could not understand how she played into the torrid affair of a nameless nobleman and the Garnier's most popular dancer. Comfort seemed the last thing Sorelli wanted; perhaps wisdom or persuasion from a source that did not travel in the same circles as her.

"Sorelli? Are you sure you want to do this?" The question was so unexpected, even Christine was shocked.

There was very little room inside the carriage, and Sorelli had to stare out the window to escape Christine.

"I have no choice," she whispered.

But she did. At lest, Christine thought she did. Keep riding, and Sorelli still had a few years in the corps, dancing through her heartache and living with her decision. Turn around now and she faced ruination on the streets with a child as the only memory of the father.

Christine gripped her hands and forced Sorelli to look at her. "We could speak to the father. He might be more understanding than you think. Maybe he'll give you money and before long, you could come back to the oper-"

Her speech came to a halt when Sorelli threw Christine's hands back in her lap. The dancer gave Christine a look of pure hatred.

"Not everyone is as good as the Vicomte," she seethed. "Not even his own brother."

The carriage had stopped. Sorelli scrambled out to pay the driver and left Christine alone inside.

Phillipe, the Comte de Changy. Raoul's brother and future husband to Lady Kathrina Deveraux.

Sorelli reappeared a moment later for her gloves then turned around to enter the mid-morning bustle. The streets were much busier in this part of the city then her own neighborhood or Christine's. There was little chance of anyone in this part ever setting foot in an opera, let alone seeing her performance, but Sorelli still pulled her hood down farther over her dark hair. The sun was out and the people went on their daily business without a care for dancer and diva. Behind her, Christine shouted over the chaos of voices.

"Sorelli, wait!" Christine leapt out of the carriage and ran after Sorelli.

"Is that why I'm here?" Christine demanded. "So I'll run and tell Phillipe to stop you?"

He would. Christine was sure he would if he knew. He was cold and aloof to her but men like Raoul did not come to be on their own and Phillipe had the keeping of her former fiancée since he was a boy.

Sorelli pulled away and looked over Christine's shoulder. "The hansom's still there. You're welcome to go home."

"Tell me what you want, or I will go home!"

"I want..." the truth was in there, working itself to the surface but Sorelli held it back. "I want to be free of this. Are you coming or not?"

It was tempting. Erik might not even ask why she was back so soon. She felt the key against her thigh. Comforting, even if it offered no guidance.

"I'll go," she said.

Sorelli pointed to a run down shop across the street. For an Apothecary's shop, the building was rather plain. Few bottles were on display in the windows and only the faded sign on its door betrayed its occupation.

Sorelli headed towards the shop. She veered off towards the side of the building and led them through an alley. Christine held a hand over her nose to block the stench of rotting garbage and nearly bumped into Sorelli when she stopped in front of a large wooden door. Sorelli knocked.

"Who's there?" The door opened a crack. A pale blue eye looked out at them suspiciously. "No charity here, girls, try the church down the way."

Sorelli placed her foot in the door and opened it farther. "I'm here to see Louise, if you please."

The man behind the door was old, too old to be standing. His grizzled but steady eyes held their suspicion, but he opened the door farther to see who called at his back door.

"What do you want with her?"

"We have an appointment for this time. I would appreciate it if you would find your wife for me at this moment."

Christine could not see what passed between them, but the man's eyes lit up with complete understanding as if Sorelli had spoken her dirty secret out-loud.

"That's how it is, eh? What Louise does down there's her own business, so along as we eat. Wait here, I'll get her."

He left them alone in the cold. Sorelli moved closer to Christine to share in her limited warmth and Christine welcomed it. The apothecary's wife found them just as they began to shiver.

Louise, as she was called, was nothing Christine had expected. Short and squat with a rolley frame the woman looked as lively and jovial as a hen. "Jules, you fool! Didn't you know it was winter! My apologies, mademoiselles, he's been playing in the poppies again."

The woman caught Christine's confused expression and laughed. "You were expecting the devil? Ha!"

She ushered them into the back of the shop where most of the storage was kept. A sweet, earthly smell hung heavily in the air and Christine closed her eyes and let it fill her senses. Her father had known basic herbal remedies from their times at the fair and passed some of that knowledge to her along with music. Aloe for skin, chamomile for nerves, rosemary for the gripes, and tansy- which was why they were here. They were all there in giant barrels scattered about the room.

Sorelli had collected herself sufficiently to talk business with the apothecary's wife, but Louise would not hear her.

"Not here, child. Let's go down to the cellar and have a nice chat." Louise kicked aside a tattered rug to revel a trap door. Candle in her hand, Louise lifted the door by herself and disappeared.

"Hurry up, girls! Haven't got all day!" she called from the depths.

Christine went first followed closely by Sorelli. At the bottom was a very small room. A bed sat in the corner with a nightstand and wash bin at its side. A table was in the middle accompanied by four chairs and a small bowl. Along the wall was a large bookcase crowded with the jars and exotic plants.

Sorelli eyed the bed with loathing and when she spoke her voice shook. "Should I lie down?"

Louise was standing on her toes trying to reach a large, green jar and laughed again at Sorelli's innocent question.

"If you need a nap, be my guest."

She motioned for them to sit while she collected the rest of her materials.

Louise planted her ample frame on the small chair and arranged the items on the table. "If you think I am going to suck out the babe with my evil breath and leave you as hollow as an atheist confessional you can leave. Really child, we do not work that way. I am not a witch and this isn't a fairy tale. How old are you exactly?"

"Twenty-two," Sorelli answered quickly.

Louise gave her a look.

"Eighteen."

Louise smiled. "I thought as much. Most girls at twenty-two are worried about getting babies, not getting rid of them. I have a special remedy for such things, you see. One drop and you'll have more babes than you'll know what to do with. Come see me when you've been made an honest woman."

The women opened her jars and placed them besides the bowl. She dumped the contents of one jar into the water and it began to fizzle. She added something else and it spilled over the sides. Both girls jumped back and exchanged looks of fear, but they changed as the water began to glow.

Louise made a sound like a giggle. "Wonderful! It doesn't' always work with raw pineapple, but get the right mix and anything can happen. Let's get down to business. What are your names?"

The dancer answered first. "Sorelli."

Christine said nothing and the woman repeated her question.

"I'm not here for that," she insisted.

"What… is… your… name?"

"Christine."

"Good, now tell me why you are here."

Louise pulled the stalk of a plant out of a jar and held it in the flame. The plant cracked when the fire finally caught and Louise placed it in the bowl so the burning half was hanging over the side. Sorelli's hands, which had lain in her lap, now kneaded the tiny life near her belly. "I am here because... because I cannot care for this child."

The plant was burning quickly. The flame had already reached the stalk of the plant, leaving a gray skeleton behind. It gave off a heavy smell, one Christine thought she should recognize, but the smoke pushed away all thoughts save the beauty of the water.

Louise shook her head. "Wrong answer, child. If you simply could not care for the child, you would give it to someone who could."

"I don't want to give up dance."

"Try again."

The smoke must have had the same effect on Sorelli as it did Christine. Sorelli bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Her chin quivered as the blood ran down onto her cloak. A shadow firmly hung over the dancer's eyes. What it the Comte or her own misery the poor woman saw? Or where they inseparable? Sorelli raised her hand into the tendrils of smoke and let it float through her fingers like delicate ribbons.

"He doesn't want me." Sorelli closed her fist as if to catch the smoke and it rushed aside, continuing its path towards the ceiling.

"Does he know?" Sorelli kept her hand in the air and looked at Louise as if it was the first time she had ever seen her. It may have. Her eyes held back the threat of tears, and the pupils of her lovely irises were dilated to tiny specks. Now, it was her turn to shake her head.

"And you? Why are you here?"

Her voice sounded far away, yet Christine knew she was talking to her. Her mind wanted to surrender to the oblivion the smoke promised, but she resisted and held onto a single thought to keep her from falling.

"For her. She did not want to come alone," she answered lamely. Louise picked up a random bottle and poured the contents into the bowl. The water changed from a passive blue to molten gold and a memory stared back at her beneath the skin of the water.

"Try again," Louise said. The water had remained the deep, fathomless gold and it suddenly dawned on Christine that was the color of Erik's eyes.

"I can help you, child, for a price." Sorelli reached into the folds of her cloak to take out a very large purse. "Put that away, child. That's not what I meant."

Christine stared at the water, lost in the familiarity and mysticism. She felt weightless, high above her body by an alien force that carried her further and further away even as she fought against it. Erik was looking at her from its depths. All the anger, lust, hatred, and joy he roused in her from a simple glance held onto the edges of her mind and pulled until she felt near madness. Then, a moment of clarity came, and she was once again in her own body. Her skin tingled all over as if she had just been touched and she reached into the nothingness to pull it back to her. She had no words for what she felt, but it lived inside her, waiting for its moment.

_He doesn't know child. He can't know unless you tell him._

That voice! She knew that voice and yet she was too wrapped in her own mind to recognize it. Another joined it, full of youthful naivete, but it voiced exactly what Christine would have asked if she could.

"What do you mean?"

The presence was gone and she was coming back. Christine felt herself return to the state she had been before she entered the cellar, only colder. Louise was still seated across from her, stirring the contents of the bowl and the mixture exploded in protest. When Louise dipped a bony finger into its depths, it settled. The colors remained, but now Christine saw thought she saw shapes mar the beautiful gold.

"With choices come certainty, but not clarity. Once you make your decisions, you cannot go back. You may not know why and I can almost guarantee you will never know, but there are reasons why to make the choices you do. You alone figure that out and regret, unfortunately, can be a cruel teacher."

Louise flicked her hand at the burnt plant and it crumbled to ashes into the bowl. The water gave off one last golden glow, then settled to a fathomless color in the darkness of the room. Louise placed her hands palms up on the table in front of Sorelli in silent invitation. The dancer brought out her own, but stopped just above the woman's frail skin.

"Please," Sorelli sobbed. "Please stop! I can't do it! I just can't!"

Sorelli collapsed against Christine's side. The young woman sobbed her grief for herself, her lover, and the child she would come to know, now safely nestled within her.

The apothecary's wife showed them the door.


	16. A MidDay Stroll

_A/N: Violence ho! I mean it. Very, very violent. Ye've been warned. R/R as always, please, and a big hug to those that do._

* * *

**Chapter #16**

**A Mid-day Stroll**

They discovered the heat had not increased with the midday sun. Clouds closed in on the sky's light and Christine pulled on her hood over the chill.

"Sorelli, please keep up."

Sorelli's trailed behind Christine, wandering aimlessly among the stands. The dancer had barely spoken a word since Louise refused her money, but her silence was not one of contemplation. Louise had given her herbs, free of charge, to help with the first few weeks of pregnancy. With firm instructions to eat well and rest, the Apothecary's wife sent them on their way as if it had been nothing more then a pleasant doctor's visit. Sorelli was now using her large purse of money to purchase food Louise had told them would be good for the baby.

"She said fruit was good, didn't she? I do not know if she said that or vegetables." Sorelli handed the vendor three extra franks and he gave her another dried apple for her trouble.

"I think she said both. But we have to hurry," Christine said. "We'll be expected back soon."

Christine envisioned a warm fire and a masked man when she returned. At the same time, she saw a lone painted Sorelli on the streets, waiting for a man to pay for the next meal of her and her child.

Sorelli was watching a passing mother and her children. Christine tugged on her companion's arm, but she did not move.

"Do you think…." Sorelli hesitated and her free arm caressed the small swell of her stomach. The dancer's eyes light up in a secret smile.

"Do you think it will be a boy?" Her eyes left Christine's and she gazed at the fruit of her actions in wonder "I do hope so. A boy, with light hair and dark eyes just like Phillipe."

With any luck, Christine thought, the child will be the spitting image of the Delaflote family and nothing of the father. While she was glad their trip had not turned out as she expected, she feared Sorelli's decision had come from grief and the sweet smoke in Louise's basement. The idea of the baby charmed Sorelli immensely; the consequences were nowhere near her mind. Lady Deveraux and Erik awaited her, who knew what was in store for the dancer now.

Christine took the package of herbs and old fruit from her companion and tucked it under her arm. "You can discuss it with Madame Giry when we return to the opera."

A startled expression replaced the dancer's joy. "Madame Giry? She _told_ me to come."

It was not even noon yet, but Christine felt her mind close down with the newest revelation. There had been far too many in one morning.

They had a general idea of where the opera house lay, but the crowds of mid-day in the city turned them around. Christine tried to flag a hansom and failed. The only option was to continue walking in the same direction until she found her bearings or reached their destination.

But as they continued on with Christine in the lead and Sorelli petering behind, the population on the streets changed. Friendly ignorance changed to guarded avoidance. The men- and there were most men about- hid in the collars of their coats. Brightly colored women eyed the pair suspiciously at their perches where they stood in gaudy display. Christine saw one man approach a light beauty and disappear with her into a building.

"We shouldn't be here," she said, more to herself than her companion. She had heard of these places often in the priests' tangents. This was where men went to sin and where loose women fell. Sorelli moved closer to her and watched the passing couples.

"Drabble," Sorelli said, wrinkling her nose. "Nothing but filth."

Christine's patience and bravery were rapidly running out. She tried one last time to signal a ride to no avail. She took Sorelli's hand and led her through a winding path towards what she thought was her destination, no longer caring where they went so long as it was not here. No matter the time of day, the streets were notoriously dangerous for unescorted women.

If Sorelli was now excited, she was also keenly aware of the delicate side of her condition. "Christine, not so fast!"

Aside from the wrist in her grasp, she ignored Sorelli's protests. Sorelli dug her nails into the fleshy part of Christine's arm. "Let's go back. This is too dangerous."

But the way they came was indistinguishable from any other. Christine turned and turned again, but she could not tell which path she came from. The few passing people looked far too rough to ask for help.

There were not secret shadows here, only the bare reality of the lower class. The buildings along with the people were in various stages of decay. Few old men held out their palms, but they were moving too fast to head alms. In many ways, Paris during the day was more terrifying than at night. Late hours evoked images of the super natural, but in the midday, there were no secrets and the streets were laid bare for all to see.

Two figures approached them. The sun allowed for a clear view of their gruff appearance, but Christine did not know them. They made no secret of their intent and their easy smiles were more terrifying than if they had pulled a knife. Sorelli, forgetting the delicacy of her situation, pulled Christine down a random street and into the nearest open doorway.

"Who were they?" Sorelli asked between gasps.

"I don't know." Christine was trembling. She lifted a hand to touch her throat and found it quivered as erratically as the heartbeat beneath. Sorelli paced the length of the room; muttering assurance to herself that she was and would be fine. "Sorelli, please. Just… just let me think for a moment."

Her breath began to slow and her hands were still. The room they were in had been abandoned some time ago, but there were still signs of recent inhabitants. The fireplace was black with fresh soot and chicken bones were scattered near the hearth. There was no way out save the front entrance. A stairway was collapsed and rotting in he floor and the only light came from the open doorway.

Christine still held the package of herbs. She doubted that was what they were after. "Sorelli, we should leave this place."

"Why? No one will find use here."

And suddenly, the scarce light of the room was blocked out. Sorelli gasped and backed into a corner. Christine squinted to see the two figures in the doorway.

They were not French by the manner of their dress, but definitely laborers. The impressive bulk of both men spoke of a lifetime of living off their power and they moved with perfect awareness of their capabilities. One of the men was slightly taller than the other, but they both possessed the same dark looks and harsh features.

The shorter one spoke first. "I didn't know it was May Day, did you?"

They both chuckled and advanced on them. Sorelli inched her way along the wall towards Christine.

"I didn't," the tall one answered. "Why do you say so?"

"'Cause I don't play games any other time and damned if that wasn't a game of chase the rabbit."

Christine reached into her pocket and found nothing but her key. "We- we have no money."

"Good, then I won't feel like a whore. That's one thing Ma always said, never sell yourself at any price. Give it away for free."

It all happened so fast and yet it was only a small tear in time. The short one lunged towards Christine, but she ducked out of the way into the other man's arms. The other grabbed Sorelli and struggled with her four-legged towards the wall. He nailed her against the wall and began to raise the hems of her skirts. Sorelli kicked and screamed with a voice that would wake the dead, but her attacker silenced her by pressing his forearm to her throat. The tall one locked Christine in a brutal hold with her arms behind her back. Every time she struggled, the man twisted her arm and the tender bruises on her wrist sent white-hot pain shooting through her arm.

"No! Leave her alone!" Christine battled to come to her aid. The tall one struck her across the face and stars danced before her eyes.

"Well, I'll be!" The short one stopped his greedy exploration of Sorelli's body and produced a large purse from her cloak. "That one on that ground there lied. Plenty of money!"

The man grabbed a fistful of her hair and exposed her throat. "That's another thing Ma said, never lie or get your payment, tramp."

The room went dark again as the tall one slammed Christine's head on the floorboards. When she came to a moment later, her ears were ranging. Images and sounds swam through her brain, darting over the surface of her mind, but she lacked the strength to hold on. Cries of protest and grunts of pleasure could be heard over the ringing, but her mind and body betrayed her. She felt the rough wood under her check and no more as her mind surrendered into an oblivion of pain.

As the short one began to unlace his pants, Sorelli found her voice.

"Please," she begged. "Please! I'm with child, please!"

The man ceased immediately and dropped her to the floor. He looked disgusted at the possibility and shot a looked at this companion standing over a groggy Christine.

"You better not be lying to me, girl."

Sorelli was hauled to her feet again and her legs swayed beneath her. She cried out as the man lifted her skirts and probed her abdomen with greasy fingers. When he found what he sought, he muttered a rude oath and let her skirts fall.

"Blimey if she ain't telling the truth. I can't do it now!"

"We gotta do something," the tall one insisted. "You know what she said; no thrash, no cash. Let me have a go with this one."

The short one grunted. "No, let me. I'm ready."

Christine too was pulled to her feet and the stars swam violently behind her eyes. She was thrown against a wall and the man press himself to her body. The other struggled with a weeping Sorelli and he smashed her temple against the nearest wall. The dancer slumped to the floor as if dead.

Christine's knees buckled under his probing fingers and he forced her thighs high and wide before him with his arms. His rotting teeth closed on the flesh above her collarbone and Christine groaned in pain.

"You're a pretty thing, you know. No wonder. Just be still and you'll enjoy it."

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to bite off the man's greasy nose but her mind was too thick with fog to let her do either. The man's disgusting breath was hot in her ears and she wondered if this was what humiliation smelled like.

"So pretty," he whispered, drunk off his own lust. "So pretty-"

– and then he said no more.

The lust filled eyes of the man bulged and a purple tongue popped out of his foul mouth. A deceptively small length of catgut circled his neck and the face above it turned an unnatural blue. Erik stood at the end of the rope with murder written in his eyes. He flicked his wrist to make the killing blow, but his bandages compromised his grip and the rope slipped through his hands. As Christine's attacker hit the ground, his companion threw himself into the masked figure.

They were matched in height but the stranger had several inches of girth on Erik. He threw himself again into the Phantom's body and they went crashing into the wall. Erik ducked a blow to his face and returned the favor with a shot at the man's kidneys.

Christine crawled over to Sorelli's still body. A gash across her forehead dripped red, but she as alive. A groan brought her attention to the other figure on the other side of the room. Her attacker's eyes fluttered open and closed before focusing on the fight. Erik drove his elbow into the man's nose and it made a sickening crunch noise. The man cried out as his nose bled profusely. The other was badly hurt as well, but he still moved to come to his companion's aid. Christine broke from her stupor and left Sorelli on the ground. Before he saw her, Christine grabbed the end of the rope and pulled it with all her might.

He cried like a child and the sound caught his companion's attention. Erik use the distraction to drive his fist into the large artery in the man's neck. His eyes rolled in his head and he too crumbled to floor. The man still struggled at the end of the robe making desperate grunting noises. Christine's hands were burning and as much as she knew she should hold on, the raw catgut gave and gave again until the man was free.

Erik was on him in an instant. Christine backed away as her attacker's eyes dawned in understanding of his end. The man only had enough time to raise his arms before Erik took up the robe and the fight was over.

Life has a strange scent to it. Unless it is taken away, one hardly notices its absence. Christine was still standing, though with how weak her knees felt, she knew she would not be able to for long. She breathed and breathed again but could not recall life as it had been mere moments before.

Erik checked to make sure both men were out and then leaned against the reassurance of the wall. Fatigue was written in every inch of his body and a red mark on his cheek showed signs of bruising. His beautiful clothing was in disarray and if she did not catch the rise and fall of his chest, he would have been as still as a statue.

She wanted to touch him. Heat filled her veins and her hands twitched to feel living his flesh. Questions could be made in time, but she felt she would die if she did not feel him.

As if he heard her thoughts, Erik's eyes opened and locked with her own. If the sight of him warmed her, his gaze turned her to molten lava. The limited of the air was gone but she did not make a sound for fear of unseen consequences. God only knew what would happen to abate this heat and God knew she would welcome it.

Sorelli's startled gasp came from her position on the floor. She turned and unnatural shade of white and fainted dead away, the sight of the living phantom too much for her. Christine felt for a pulse and it beat steadily under her fingers. She arranged the dancer's body to a comfortable position when something caught her eye.

A pale kidskin mask lay near the body of her attacker. She picked it up as if it were made of delicate spun glass and had to stop herself from exploring its contours with her touch. It looked so small off his face, and she almost laughed as she realized she had not noticed it was gone. It must have fallen during the fight. One side was cool to the touch and as hard any metal, the other was still warm and soft as active skin.

When she looked up, Erik's hand was hovering over the twisted skin of his face. He had not been this exposed in some time and the panic she expected lay benign. The strained flesh stretched over an unnatural bone structure was shocking, but familiar.

Erik caught her staring and turned his face as far from her gaze as he could. But the room was very small and he had no place to hide. Rising on shaky legs, Christine went to him. His face up close held on odd mixture of life and death. Paper-thin yellowed skin stretched across pulsing veins. The gaping hole where a nose should have been flared with every breath. And the huge, male-formed lips trembled, making him beautifully horrible in here eyes. With great tenderness, she put the mask in its proper place and tied it securely. Her hands lingered a moment in his jet-black hair.

The change was instant. With the mask in place, he seemed to grow several more inches and he resumed that awesome power of mystery and darkness. His slight figure filled the room, yet his eyes were the same fathomless gold she had seen look back at her from the depths of Louise's magic.

Christine's mouth was dry. His right hand touched a tender spot on her forehead and Christine hissed against the pain. The fingers trailed across her temples, to a wet check, and stopped on the softness of her lower lip. She was frightened, but not in the way she had been when the man held her against the wall. Heat coiled under his touched and settled low in her stomach. Parting her lips, she closed her eyes against what she hoped and feared would come next.

Erik took his hand away. He retrieved his lasso from the man's neck then gathered the prone body of Sorelli in his arms. Both of their attackers were either out or dead and Christine no longer cared which.

Erik stopped in the doorway and turned to Christine still frozen in her place.

"Let's go," he said gruffly and the moment was truly over.


	17. Truths and Tea

_**A/N:** This was originally one looong chapter, now two. It's a filler, but it had to be written. Good news is that there will probably be an earlier update. Thank you dear readers and reviewers. I cannot express how much you guys mean to me._

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**Chapter #17**

**Truths and Tea**

"Madame Giry, I believe you know something of this."

Erik pulled his cape away to reveal the body in his arms. The gash across Sorelli's forehead had stopped bleeding, but her own healthy color had not yet returned. Madame Giry went white at the sight of her pupil and put a balled fist to her chest.

"What happened?" she said.

Without invitation, Erik crossed the threshold into the Giry's small apartment. Christine hovered in the hallway, caught between her fits of trembling and sobbing. Her mind seemed to betray her as it played the events with excruciating clarity as it really happened or as if things might have been only slightly different.

Erik laid the dancer's body on a small couch and straightened his clothes. Tight-lipped as always had not offered any explanation for his well-timed entrance and seemed in no hurry to do so. "I will be back later to –_discuss _today's events, Madame. For now, I must see Mademoiselle Daae to her room to rest. Shall we go, Christine?"

Meg appeared in her bedroom doorway and went as white as her mother at the scene that greeted her. Sorelli, seemingly dead, lay sprawled on their small couch and the notorious Phantom of the Opera stood in the middle offering his arm like a gentleman to her best friend. Her mother, seeing her shock, shook her head and asked her daughter to fetch a damp cloth. She obeyed, only because there was nothing else to do.

Christine could not remember the last time she had been this tired or scared. Fear she felt seemed to collect inside her, waiting for a chance to burst. The only way she would start to feel better was to loose herself in Erik's world of darkness and sound. Still, when she opened her mouth, out came a faint _no_ that surprised everyone in the room, including herself.

"No, Erik," she repeated. "I will stay here. I need Madame and Meg's help to ready for dinner tonight."

Erik's nostril flared. "I did not think that is wise, Christine. You have had quite a shock and I do not think shallow conversation with noblewomen would be good for you at this time."

"I'll be fine. I'm not hurt."

He came to her in three strides, eyes blazing, and sweat running down his left cheek. Christine gasped and took a step back only to bump into the Giry's old piano. His grasp was gentle and he only extended Christine's arm, but she cried out as tender ligaments were stretched to the point of pain. Meg had returned with the rag and she moved to go to her friend, but her mother shook her head.

"Not now," her mother mouthed. "It will be fine."

Whatever was happening did not appear fine. Slowly, Erik pulled her wrist to eye level. "I suppose these are only freckles."

Five finger-like bruises circled her wrist. They had faded nearly to her natural skin tone though the outlines were still distinct. Christine never thought of them now, as it had been a while since the injury was made, but she remembered well had she got them.

"Erik…" she said, gently, "…you left those."

She remembered his brutal grasp and beautiful voice, twisted to maliciousness as he attempted to make her his for good.

You will know silence, you will bask in darkness, and you will live every moment of your life knowing you are truly… utterly… alone.

Erik still held her wrist, but his face went blank with blatant shock. He tried to school his features to unreadable, but it was too late. She had already seen.

He had tried to make good on that promise until Christine's need for freedom had finally won out and he gave her the key. Seeing her pressed against that wall, exposed to that vile man's lust had nearly killed him. He had hoped now she would let him shelter her from the world and everyone in it. But those bruises, proof that he was no different from the men that tried to rape her, made him wonder if sanctuary was something beyond his power to give.

Christine sensed the direction of his thoughts and turned her arm to grasp his hand. He wore no gloves and his elegant hands were rough from burns and the lasso's ragged catgut.

"I will be fine. Madame and Meg will look after me. I'll be back this evening," she smiled and touched the icy pulse beating unevenly in his wrist. "Then we can have a lesson."

She was touching him willingly, tenderly even. Their audience no longer mattered to him and he seized the opportunity. He tucked a loose curl behind her ear and brushed his fingers over her forehead, reminiscent of that final scene in the abandoned house.

"Alright," he said. "I will bring a carriage to Madame Ferry's home this evening. Don't be late."

It was odd to see Erik leave a room through a simple doorway. He left and shut the door behind him, leaving the women alone. Madame Giry and Meg busied themselves with Sorelli's comfort and only occasionally looked Christine's way.

"Meg, may I use your room to get ready?"

Meg frowned. While her mother never let on what she was thinking, Meg never bothered to hide it. A couple days before, Christine had returned from the dead and offered nothing more then assurance that she was fine. And now today, showing up with an unconscious dancer and a legendary ghost, Christine knew she would have to offer up some explanation soon.

But Meg, if not by birth, by rearing was a lady and she smiled at her best friend without saying anything more.

"Of course, Christine. Come with me."

Meg's room was about the size of Christine's bathroom below the opera house. It was not threadbare, but there was very little room to maneuver between Meg's bed and the tiny vanity she kept near her closet.

Meg planted Christine on her vanity stool and disappeared into her closet.

"Were you thinking green or blue? I have a new green one, but the blue always looked good on you," Meg called.

"Blue." Christine picked up the hairbrush and removed the few gold strands between the bristles. The handle was a warn brown and she had a sudden memory of her attackers muddy-brown eyes devouring her as he hiked up her…

The brush fell to the ground. Meg sailed into the room and saw the brush on the floor. She picked it up and began brushing the Christine's hair. The course hairs running over her scalp was bliss and Christine closed her eyes and listen to the faint cracking of boar's bristles.

"Are you going to tell me what happened? You don't have to of course, but I would like to know what you were doing that would require a ghost and a pregnant dancer."

Christine's eyes popped open. "You know?"

The brush became tangled on a stubborn not and Meg tugged until the curl smoothed free. She placed the brush back on the table and picked up a bottle of skin cream.

"Of course. Turn around. Don't worry, not many know about her affair with the Comte, but those of us that did knew it was only a matter of time before something ruined it, fiancé aside."

It was a great relief to know she was not the only one who carried the burden of knowledge, but there were still things she suspected even Meg did not know.

"I'm sorry, Meg. It's not my place to say."

Meg was gentle as she applied the cream to the marks on her face, but her friend still winced. Her eyes were swollen and the bruise on her forehead was rapidly turning blue. One more hour and no amount of cream could hide it. "Since when did you start to keep secrets, Christine? Not that much has changed, has it?"

She had said it in a light tone, but Christine could hear the strain in her best friend's voice.

"Meg, please understand-" but she never got to finish her sentence.

"Meg!" Madame Giry called from the other room. "I need you to help me take Sorelli back to her room. Get her some tea and tell her to rest."

"But Maman-"

"Now." Meg squeezed Christine's shoulder in farewell and left through the doorway

Alone now, for the first time in ages, Christine did not like it. She had something to focus on when other people talked and she could forget the feeling of that man's thighs nudging her's apart.

You're a pretty one… no wonder… 

No wonder what? She tried to lift the brush to continue smoothing out her hair, but her hands lacked the strength to grip it. She tried piling her hair atop her head in a modest bun, but the strands fell free and tumbled down her back.

"Oh god!" she cried. "I can not do this!"

And she finally let the panic that had been eating at her for some time finally overwhelm her. Her skin felt almost feverish and the temperature in the room made her shiver again and again. How could see go to dinner and pretend everything was all right? Erik had known, but she had still looked him straight in the eye and lied.

She really did not care about the opera's financial future, but she would go through with this. She had promised she would.

"Tea solves everything, my dear. Have some." Madame Giry was standing right behind her with a steaming mug of tea in her hands. Christine accepted it gratefully and ignored Madame Giry's warnings on the temperature.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "I don't understand what is wrong with me."

"You have had a shock, Christine. Breath and it will be alright again."

She inhaled until she thought her lungs would burst and did it again, until she no longer felt the need to throw up. Madame Giry took up the brush and continued the work her daughter had started moments before.

"You don't have to go, you know."

"I do. People are counting on me." The panic was gone, but she was starting to feel anger. She had not forgotten what Sorelli had told her but now that she could think, she found she almost hated the woman who had been like a mother to her for so long.

Madame Giry caught the aggression in her voice and put the brush down. She had put Christine's hair only half up, such hair was meant to be admired, not hidden in a bun.

"I expect you have something to say to me," the old woman said, sitting on her daughter's bed and arranging her skirts.

Christine did not hesitate. She turned in her chair until she could see nothing but a woman she knew so little about."Why?"

Antoinette smirked. "Do you really need to ask?"

"But what about Meg's father? He would never wish you to do such a thing, and you his wife!"

The smirk transformed into a wide grin.

"Wife? Wife! My dear girl, such innocence!" She held up her left hand, displaying the narrow and empty ring finger. "Wife I never was. Serge was married with a family when I meet him."

"But-"

"But what? But I am the immobile Madame Giry? Christine, I was young and in love once too. Logic has nothing to do with it."

Christine rested her arms on the vanity and hung over her best friends toiletries. To think the person who owned these small things might never have lived was almost too much to bare. "Does Meg know?"

"She knows her father is dead, which he is. He died before I knew I carried his child of an apoplexy."

Christine raised her face and met Madame Giry's impassive expression. "And if he had not?"

Antoinette shrugged. "Who knows? I may have gone through with it. But then again, I may have not. You'll notice Louise is very convincing, no?"

"But why send Sorelli? Why run the risk?"

"Don't you see, child? Sorelli had to face the consequences of her recklessness and finally take control of her life. I needed Meg to figure out I would do anything to keep Serge alive for me. And you, my young one, you are at the same crossroads."

"Me? What do I have to do with this?"

Madame Giry finally stood and went to her daughter's dresser. Among the ballet shoes and odd letters sat a miniature of Serge. She could never tell her daughter all there was to her father, but she could not deny her his image, however she may interpreter it.

"Do you remember when I found you that time in the chapel? You were weeping and calling for the angel your father promised."

It had been a bitterly cold night. The few candles flickering in the breeze brought her loneliness to the forefront and no matter how she cried, no on heard her. No one but an angel.

Madame Giry reached across the small space dividing them and gently touched her wrist. Her eyes shone wit what Christine could only guess was motherly love.

"You always were a sensible girl, Christine. Even with your love for stories, you are not one to give into flights of fancy. When Erik sang to you, why did you listen? When he came to you on stage, why did you not expose him? You know, my dear, you truly do but you are simply too afraid to see… He is too."

They were venturing into territory Christine really did not want to discuss. She knew who _he_ was but she could not let Madame Giry's words get to her, not now.

"I need to get dressed Madame. Thank you."

Madame Giry smiled. Normally at such emotional, private times, Madame Giry would embrace her. Now she did not move.

"Your welcome my dear. Although, I did not do anything. A cup of tea nearly solves everything save a confused heart."

And she was gone.


	18. Paean

_A/N: I am no expert, when it comes to Tunisia or wine. Knowledge comes from experience of the beautiful continent of Africa and German culture. All foibles and liberties are on me. R/R please, it really helps._

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**Chapter #18**

**Paean**

The gold and ivory knocker was fastened several inches above her head. If she raised her arm to knock, her cloak would open and expose her to the bitter chill. If she continued to stare at the beautiful oak of the Ferry's doorway, she could very well freeze to death and forget dinner.

Christine had forgotten how quickly night descended in winter. Mere hours ago, the sun was bright, though the wind was cold. Now, light was gone but the cold remained. She wanted to assign some kind of significance to her new inattention to light cycles but the effort seemed futile, or at least overdone.

She raised the knocker three times and waited.

Her cloak pressed against her back as another wind swept through the city. In truth, she had not wanted to attend this dinner from the beginning, but her wavering sense of obligation sent her here. She was in no mood for company. Even if it had been an ordinary day, she dreaded this dinner. Even at her best, this was not her world and she was not at her best tonight.

A young man in a suit opened the door and let her in.

"Mademoiselle Daae, I presume? You have been expected." He removed her cloak ceremoniously and she flinched when his hands grazed her neck.

Her dress, her hair, everything down to her shoes had been chosen by Meg and altered at the last minute by her mother. Lovely green silk was exchanged for modest blue, and her hair after a long argument, was left to flow down her back in its usual spiraled mess. It was not what she would have chosen, but when Christine caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she conceded that the picture she presented was prefect. Modest yet regal, beautiful yet tasteful, truthful yet tailored.

"This way madam'selle."

The butler led her into the sitting room and offered her refreshments. When she declined, the butler locked her in. A warm fire blazed in the hearth and she moved towards it to melt off the last of the winter's chill.

A large likeness of Jules François Camille Ferry sat on the mantelpiece. Christine had heard of his pursuits in both education and abroad, but she had never seen him at the opera house or the galas in the time she had been a student. And no wonder, the ruffled sideburns and tired eyes had the look of a man who would be bored with anything outside his interests. Right now, from what she had heard, he was obsessed with France's presence in Tunisia.

Though she knew very little politics, she did know things were complicated far beyond repair in the African country. The locals had been given freedom but very little power. And although the country was formally given back to the people, the strong French presents spoke otherwise. Through tactful political manipulation and brute force, the country's existence was dependant on France's commerce and goodwill. No one spoke of it, no one seemed to care. Tunisia was an exotic place, less real than the backdrops of the stage. Last she heard, rebellions had risen from several neighboring countries and the navy had been deployed to try to keep the peace.

Next to Monsieur Ferry's likeness was a lovely silver dish with interwoven plants running in continuous circles on the silvery surface. She touched the elaborate grooves and left a very noticeable thumbprint. Panicked, she began rubbing the artifact with the sleeve of her gown until she heard the doorknob click and turn.

"Mademoiselle Daae, I hope you brought something rather sharp, because I do not think you could ruin that silver any more."

Lady Deveraux was alone. Her beautiful face was unforgiving, but her eye's shown with amusement. She was extraordinarily stunning, but he noticed there was something off about her face. One check appeared higher than the other, giving her an almost rugged appearance and a peculiar air.

"Oh Christine, quite sulking. It is all right. I doubt the lady of the house will notice." She closed the door behind her and sat on one of the couches.

She did not dare hope, but Christine still asked, "Really?"

"Of course. Madame Ferry was never known for her perception. Just compliment her when she comes in and she will love you forever."

"How do you know this?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "That's not the original frame," she said towards Jules's unpleasant face. "It fell into the fire when I first came here as a guest. She thinks I adore her taste in wines."

Lady Deveraux was as good as her word. Madame Ferry joined them and once Christine complimented her on dress and house, she had made a friend for life. Madame Ferry invited her to dine at her home again, which Christine tried to decline and insisted they look at her newest toy; a music box specially imported from India that played "a lovely foreign tune."

"Isn't it _divine_?" she beamed. "And so very exotic. I have never heard the like of it in all Paris. Have you, young lady?"

"No, Madame. Not in all the city." Christine hoped she never would again.

"I doubt anything has been heard like it in all of France. Although that Don Juan came pretty close. Tell me, my dear, what did _you_ think of it?" Madame Ferry had a habit of inflecting every other sentence with unnecessary enthusiasm. Five minutes of her talk and Christine had stopped listening for fear of overload that she nearly missed the questions directed at her.

"Me?" Christine said lamely.

"Well of course! Such odd business with that ghost. I declare when I heard the managers were to put on an opera by _it_, I insisted my husband speak to his friends to get us tickets. He ended up not going, but I know he wished he had. Such scandal, and so vulgar." Despite her unkind adjectives, Christine could tell she found it fascinating as any other bored socialite. It saddened her that a work of such unparallel beauty and genius was reduced to cheap thrills. It was appealing to her as well, but for vastly different reasons.

"You must have been scandalized when you read the score. It was purely carnal from the audience and you were in it!"

_You have no idea_, Christine thought, but kept silent.

Lady Deveraux cleared her throat. "Oh how you prattle on. My dear Madame Ferry, can you not see the girl is famished? Where is that extraordinary dinner you promised?"

The woman's face did a complete transformation. "I completely forgot. Let me see if everything is in order and then we shall eat."

She left in a whirl of skirts and Christine felt as if a large animal had been set free. She let out a sigh and sat on the closest couch.

"She is encompassing, is she not?" Lady Deveraux stood by the fireplace with the music box in her hands. She had not bothered to hide boredom when her host shoved the box in her arms, but Madame Ferry hardly noticed as she explained the intricacies of her toys. Christine did. The woman held her title well but there was so much unlady-like behavior that fascinated Christine even as it made her nervous.

"Yes, very. Yet more pleasant than the opera."

"Somehow, I doubt that very much Christine." She placed the box among the other gawky treasures strolled casually around the room. Her hand suspended above the exotic items, she seemed to drain them of their essence before moving on to the next. She raised an elegant hand to several priceless artifacts, but never touched. When the she raised her left hand to a carving of an ivory tiger, a flash of aquamarine on her finger caught Christine's attention and she sucked in a harsh breath.

Lady Deveraux had heard the sound and looked down at her hand.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Though I do not think Philippe picked it out. Poor fool has little taste, he had help, I expect." She sat down beside her and took Christine's hand with the ringed one she had been studying. "You are trembling, Christine. Are you ill?"

"No, not at all. I'm a bit cold is all." She doubted this woman would treat her curiosity on Raoul's life with the respect it deserved. As far as society was concerned, the Vicomte's torrid affair with the chorus girl was over and Christine intended to keep it that way.

Lady Deveraux cast a pointed look to the bruises peeking out beneath the edge of Christine's sleeve.

"I have something for such reactions to…_cold._ Are you averse to some unorthodox methods of healing, Christine?"

Goose flesh raised on her arms. "What do you mean?"

"Herbs, tree bark, something that would calm your nerves and make the evening more bearable for you."

She had seen the effects of certain herbs hours before. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Are you suggesting that I-"

Lady Deveraux held up her unringed hand. "I am suggesting nothing, Christine. But I can tell you have had a fright. Madame Ferry may employ the best bloody cook in all of Europe, but you will not be able to stand her conversation if you continue as you are. My… my mother knew something of herbs and passed that knowledge onto me. It is just a simple flower, nothing more and you will feel better instantly."

There were a million reasons why she should refuse and she could not recall one of them. This precarious balancing act was becoming too much for her as every drama in her life seemed unconquerable. Lady Deveraux sensed her acceptance and patted her on the hand.

"I will go up to my rooms and get it. When they bring out the first course I will slip it to you under the table. Drop it in your drink when she is not looking and within moments, all your fears will drain away."

"It will not hurt me, will it?" she asked. The last thing she needed right now was to go back to Erik drunk or worse.

Lady Deveraux gave her a brilliant smile. "My dear, would I lie to you?"

"_I think I may be the victim of recent assassination attempts."_

"_Erik, forgive me if I am not surprised."_

"_That I will, but I feel this is not the jealous work of that foolish Vicomte anymore."_

_Silence._

"_My life is always in danger, Antoinette, but I fear now Christine's is as well. Someone wants us both dead."_

Erik played the conversation again in his head. He had lost count on how many times he had done this since he left Antoinette. Normally, attempts on his life were easily fixed. Revenge or all out fear normally made his opponents clumsy and easily vanquished. But this… there was no rhyme or reason he could see. And the fact that they were after Christine as well made him edgy and far more maladroit than he should be.

Antoinette had shown no more emotion than he expected of her, but the twitch in her jaw was enough to say she did not like it. Her own daughter rested in the other room, another slept beneath the opera. Until he found out who that was, there was nothing to do but gather intelligence and hope no one else came after Christine when she was out of his sight. Knowledge of one's enemy was the first step towards victory, the gypsies had taught him that.

Erik rubbed his abused hand against his thigh. Once more and he was sure he would wear a hole into the fabric. Five more minutes and he would go inside and remove Christine himself. Ghostly aura be damned, socialites loved a good scare.

The driver tapped on the hood of the carriage. "Monsieur, if the lady is not out soon, I'll be leaving you here. This cold ain't good for a man's health and I got four small ones at home."

Erik opened the door and tossed the man a large purse of money. He did not complain anymore.

Erik, however, was tired of waiting. He ordered the driver to wait and climbed out himself into the freezing night.

The Ferry's house was large and somewhat impressive, but terribly un-unique. Families of the Ferry's caliber had wealth in abundance, but no imagination. They clamored for the same things, only larger. Erik did not need a master blueprint of the house to locate the dinning hall on the side of the house. The colored windows over looked an expensive, yet uninspired view. The plants were dead, sleeping beneath the earth but a large tree offered a hiding spot to spy on hostess and guests

He knew who she was, of course. Jules Ferry was not a man to be forgotten and his wife, while not politically active was equally memorable. She sat near the head, weaving a useless tale to her bored companions while placing greens in her mouth. One woman sat with her back to the window and across from her was Christine.

Something was wrong. He could see it in the way she held herself. Christine tilted her dead from side to side as if to see it was still attached. She would stop and slump over her plate, then straighten and begin again. The conversation continued with Madame Ferry as both speaker and recipient.

"Oh, Kathrina!" the hostess said excitedly. "I had this little number shipped in especially for you. It is a chardonnay from Air. Wonderful stuff, and so red, I could swear I was drinking deer's blood."

"How charming," the third woman said.

A butler produced a bottle of red wine, which he served to each lady. Christine's hand's closed on her own glass, but she lacked the strength to lift. She gave up and stared at her untouched food instead.

Erik moved from his hiding spot. He could not discern what was wrong, or if it was even serious from his position. He had to get her attention and get her out of there.

The opportunity came when the hostess was summoned away on a pressing matter in the kitchen.

Lady Deveraux dropped her wine glass as if it were a vile object once their hostess had left the room.

"First off," she said with loathing, "there is no such place as Air in all of Germany, except between her ears. _Ahr_ is one of the smaller wine districts which I doubt she has visited," her mind was slipping, but Christine still could not hear the difference in pronunciation. "Second, if this did come from anywhere in Germany, I suspect it was from a sweaty laborer's back because I have never tasted anything with such weak legs." Lady Deveraux swirled her glass so the red liquid funneled within; when she stopped, the wine feel in an unexciting mass in the bottom of the crystal. "See."

Erik stood motionless outside, willing Christine to look his way, but the other woman kept airing her grievances on the phony German wine. It was a voice he did not recognize, nor care to know.

"If this cat's piss is as red as a poor animal, then it is definitely not chardonnay. Ahr I remember produces some of the best _Spätburgunder_ and… Good God, Christine. Are you alright?"

Erik melted back into the shadows. Christine's fluttery eyes had opened along enough for her to catch a glimpse of pale kidskin and went completely white.

"You are pale as a ghost," Lady Deveraux continued. "It has that effect on some people, Christine. You have not indulged in spirits before, have you?"

Christine attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "If you mean questionable potions, then no."

Erik moved closer to the window again and Christine's eyes widened. _Questionable potions?_ He did not like the sound of any of this.

"I know perfectly well what I am doing, my dear. You just need to develop a tolerance."

Christine swayed back in her chair and placed a hand to her forehead. "Lady Deveraux, would you and Madame Ferry mind very much if I went home? I feel… faint."

Erik did not wait to hear the remainder of the conversation. He made his way back to the carriage to wait for her.

Within minutes, Christine was leaving the front door with her companions waving their good-byes with promises to have her over again. Her labored steps stayed on the far left side of the walkway, they swayed to the right and back again as she headed towards the carriage. Erik took a risk and opened the door by himself but stayed well back in the shadows. Her hand sought anchorage and she find it in Erik's hand as he pulled her in.

She waved one last good-bye to the women and shut the door. Christine turned to Erik slowly as if she were underwater and smiled.

"Did you know what _Spätburgunder _is?"

With that, she fainted dead away.


	19. Of a Woman Lying Ill

**Chapter #19**

**Of a Woman Lying Ill**

The frost was thick upon the clear surface, but Lady Deveraux saw clear through the window. From her place in the front parlor, she had a view of Mademoiselle Daae as she stumbled towards her waiting carriage.

Christine moved at a snail's pace. With her sense dulled and her mind following, the simplest tasks would require more effort before they failed completely. Her personal mixtures had that effect on some victims, especially when the ingredients were combined to perfection. She would have been very disappointed in herself if it had not.

Kathrina almost felt sorry for her, the poor dear. Had life been different, Kathrina may have put her efforts into making Christine a fast friend. The young woman's pleasant disposition and interesting background made her accessible in a way that made you want to keep her near. Kathrina almost regretted what she would have to do to her. But life was as it was and Kathrina was proof of that on every level.

Christine's steps were becoming dangerously unstable. Her feet found their footing on one side of the walkway, then moved to the other creating a ragged path towards her destination.

Kathrina's dark eyes glittered in amusement. _Three… two… one…_

The carriage door swung open. In its depths, a bone white face appeared as an arm shot out to help the falling diva. The arm saved her from falling into the gutter and pulled her into the carriage.

It was true. She had not let herself hope when she heard those ridiculous rumors in Germany, but at last here was her proof. Not only was he alive… but he had a weakness.

Phillipe's engagement ring glittered on her left hand. She covered it with the other and thought no more on her upcoming nuptials. This was far more important than a bored fiancé. Relentless punishment had been Kathrina's daily companion since the moment of her birth. Years of lies, humiliation had been thrust upon her all because of one extraordinarily ugly man. Now, fate had finally decided to smile on her and deliver their revenge right into her lap.

Kathrina pressed her palm against the glass and made a solemn promise as the carriage pulled out of sight.

_Soon, mother, soon.

* * *

_

In her years at the opera, both as pupil and mistress- all her years as a confidant to the opera ghost, Antoinette Giry never believed she would be in the home of the phantom.

"I know what you're thinking," Erik said when he removed her cloak and draped it over a chair. "You have been listening to your students' stories about me, Madame."

Madame Giry wanted to scoff at his remark, but kept quiet when she realized the truth of it. It seemed to defy the laws of nature that a home so beautifully decorated- _normal_ even- belonged to such a man.

He had shown up in her home- again- and handed her a blindfold with only, "Christine is not well" as his explanation. Nothing good could come of Erik seeking her help and she needed so see what had driven him to it.

Sickness had its own scent, and it was thick in the air when the blindfold finally came off on the shores of the underground lake. She had little time to take in Erik's the ornate furnishings as he lead her inside and towards Christine's room. Madame Giry's conscious eased a bit at the magnificent sights of the passing rooms. Even if her mission here was not successful, at least she knew Christine had lived here comfortably.

"Where is Christine?"

He led her as far as the end of a grand hallway, then stepped aside for her to enter alone.

At first, she thought they were too late. Christine lay perfectly still on the bed with only the faintest rise and fall of her chest. She was still in Meg's blue dress but the skirt was unrecognizable twisted savagely around her thighs. Her hands and face had ugly red splotches peaking out of the dress and the skin looked vaguely like a skinned animal.

Christine's eyes opened suddenly and she screamed something Antoinette could not understand. Her whole body convulsed as the scream left her body and ended in a fit of chilling laughter.

"Swedish," Erik explained when she stopped. "She slipped into delirium some time ago and calls for her father. I cannot rouse her from it."

"How long?"

"Since she collapsed outside of Madame Ferry's château." The truth of it seemed to weight heavily on him. A million implications hung over their heads like waiting guillotines, but she ignored them for now and went to sit on the bed.

Antoinette placed a hand on Christine's forehead, gentle and mothering. Christine rolled away from the intrusion and screamed what Antoinette could only guess was a filthy word. The young woman's eyes were open and the pupils blotted out her natural deep blue color, glazed over as they stared at things Antoinette could not see. The bodice of Meg's dress was soaked through with sweat and Christine clawed at own her body to rid herself of it. From that brief contact, Antoinette could feel the fever wrecking Christine's body, could sense the confusion of her mind and fear, so much fear.

"Why did you not undress her?" Antoinette snapped. "Can you not see she's burning?"

Mothering was a strong force, and her body remembered the language even if her own endurance was low. She stripped Christine carefully, mindful of the young woman's terrorized state and whispered reassurances in her ear. Though weak, Christine still fought her. She cried whenever Madame's cold hands touched her bare flesh and she tried to slap her away when the woman's hands began to unlace her corset. She had to rip the sleeves to get them off and she hoped Meg did not fancy it back in one piece. Several times, Christine was sick on them both and it drained her of the little strength she still had.

When she had succeeded in getting her down to her chemise, Antoinette turned to hand Erik the soiled clothes. To her utter surprise, she found him with his back to her, staring intently at the bedroom wall.

"For God's sake, Erik! This is no time to be modest! Get some clean sheets if you cannot be here."

Christine screamed again. The sound reverberated out of the girl as a dry sob and ended in a coughing fit.

"She needs water," Erik said evenly. "Her body is using all moisture to fight the fever and its dehydrating her in the process."

"Get it," Madame ordered. "And get rid of those clothes."

He left silently out the doorway and Antoinette relaxed. Without his presence, she could asses the situation with a more detached air than she could with Erik's own suffering clouding her conclusions.

Antoinette had seen her share of illness and death and yet this was not like any she had seen before. Typhus, influenza… they all had their own personalities which this one did not match. Poison hung in the back of her mind, but to acknowledge that possibility was to give light to others that she was not ready to deal with.

Christine had calmed. Save for the ugly color of her ailment, she looked like a girl asleep. She was such a beautiful young think. Antoinette could see why the young Vicomte had been so drawn to her.

But Erik? As pretty as she was, there were lovelier women who had passed through the opera since its infancy. Why this one? Christine's eyelashes lay against her cheeks as if she were in pleasant dreams. Dark hair, light skin, and eyes that saw Angels.

_Why indeed_, Madame Giry thought and she moved a damp girl from Christine's forehead.

Erik returned with clean bed sheets and water. He handed the sheets off to Madame Giry and knelt beside the bed near Christine holding a cup of water. Slowly, gently, his hand cupped the base of her skull and held it up. Christine's eyes fluttered open and for a moment, she seemed to be free of the delirium. She parted her lips as if to say something, but he silenced her when he held the water to her mouth. A look of incredible tenderness crossed the one side of his face as she drank the contents and Madame felt like a voyeur to their privacy.

When Christine finished, he lowered her back to the pillows and she went back to sleep.

"It is not a disease, then."

"No…no it is not."

"What is it?" Infection? Starvations? A simple cough? The longer they waited the more whatever this was would take hold of her.

"I did not know. I may be able to give something to her," he said and rose to a stand. "But unless I know what I am working with, I could kill her."

The thought of anyone doing Christine harm did not sit well with Antoinette. And she was surprised to find she did not like the idea of Erik's suffering either.

"Then why am I here? You know more about healing or witchcraft then I ever did."

"Hardly witchcraft, Madame. She needs care while I work. I cannot keep her comfortable and work at the same time. I have a vague idea of what this _might_ be, but I cannot figure it out and leave her by herself."

Christine cried again, only this time, there was blood on the sheets. Erik was already heading out the door went she called to him.

"How much time do you need?"

He paused, but only for a moment. "It is not what _I_ need at this point, Madame."

* * *

Silence. Near darkness. The candle would have cast menacing shadows if the room was not so bare. The wedding mannequin was tucked in the corner, out of sight save for one actively looking for it and it stared serenely out into space with a peaceful smile on its waxen lips. He left the hidden door open. The gas lights of the distant music room made shadows of the candle's radiance and it flickered every time he turned a new page.

He had no reason to use the room. As far as work went, he could do much better in his library. But he felt removed in this space, like he was inhabiting a parallel universe and not his own home. The door could only be opened if someone knew the secret, or stumbled onto it by accident like Christine. Items of embarrassment or secrecy lay about the room like a battlefield; yellowed scores, old instruments, a stolen aquamarine engagement ring, the likeness of his heart's desire.

Perhaps that was why he had chosen this room, to denote his hope for the future over his embarrassing past.

Perhaps not.

The childish scrawl of his own hand offered nothing to help with Christine's predicament. The teachings of his old gypsy tutor had been written down for whenever it may be necessary. Romish had no written language and he had found their knowledge useful years later in Persia.

This was the second time he read through the book. The pages were still the same.

Pokeberry for sever muscular hemorrhage and cramping. Tansy for sever depression and birth defects. His personal favorite was Rosay Pea. If death was not instantaneous, the victim had to suffer the embarrassment of rectal bleeding.

Nothing matched Christine's symptoms and he was not about to experiment on her. Anything less then a perfect match could push her beyond his skills and the old Gypsy woman had once told him poisons were almost always irreversible.

But if _he_ had survived poisoning once in Persia, someone as young as Christine could.

She had to. She just had to.

Ayesha decided to join her master in his secret room for some over-due attention. She never ventured here and the absence of her scent was not only shocking, but rude. Ayesha tried to be subtle. She circled his small table silently, and then began to cry in earnest at his inattention. He stared into his book and tore through the pages as if she was not there. She rubbed herself against one of his legs, but was shooed away with a firm, "Not now."

It was insufferable! For too long, she had stayed quiet while her master fell over himself for that girl. He even had a life-size replica of that girl in the corner! It was time for him to return to the one who always made him happy. Her.

The cat leap onto the table into the middle of Erik's reading.

Neither man nor cat could remember what had happened after. The candle went out, leaving them to the mercy of the outside gaslight, and the notebook exploded in a sea of papers near the mannequin, upsetting the wedding veil. Ayesha raced out of the room and hid somewhere in the kitchen, never to bother him again.

He was trembling. His nails dug into the pads of his fingers hard enough to draw blood and if he looked into a cursed mirror, he was certain his own face would be flushed red. If he listened, he could hear Christine in her forgotten tongue and Madame Giry's hushed reassurances. Would he hear his own heartbeat? It was fading… nearly gone out like the weak candle of this hidden room.

Erik bent over to retrieve the wedding veil under the scattered papers. Several stuck to the gauze as he lifted it and placed it on its rightful place. The beautiful face looked back at him in eternal devotion, dressed as she was for an impossible union.

Part of his mind screamed that it was a mistake to wait, that he should be reading through his old notes to find something that would cure her. But he already knew it was a lost cause. He was not even surprised when he opened his hand with the discarded papers in it and found the answers he had been trying to deny.

_Devil's Weed: Coarse, foul-smelling glabrous annual. Highly toxic ,_" it read._ "Symptoms: rapid pulse, nausea, vomiting, dry mouth, widened pupils, delirium, and unconsciousness._

The paper was torn in half and left to be forgotten on the floor of the secret room. He left the room with the door open; secrets no longer mattered to him. He walked until he came to the sickroom and found Madame Giry leaning over Christine like an avenging angel. He had left her alone for less than an hour, but already there were dark circles under her eyes. They seemed to deepen when she saw that his hands were empty.

"Nothing, Antoinette, there is nothing we can do."

Words seemed redundant, but he still said it aloud to confirm it to himself.

* * *

_A/N: Here's the funny thing about muses, you call and call and call for them to come back to you. But if they do, usually they come back in another form. I had inspiration for another phantom story and I devoted most of my free time to that. I apologize, especially after such a cliffhanger. You all are such dears for sticking with this._

_The good news is that I will be posting a new story as soon as I finish this one, so stay tuned for that._

_That bad news is I kind of fell out of my POC world for a while and am trying to find my way back._

_The title comes from the writings of Anna Akhmatova._

_As for reviews, they are wonderful forms of motivation, so please leave one._


	20. Lies of Eternity

**Chapter #20**

**Lies of Eternity**

It was not all that horrible to die, Christine observed during her small moments of clarity. Aside from the embarrassing vomiting and the violent sweats, she was quite comfortable. Madame Giry worked diligently for her comfort and once in a while, Erik would appear above her as clear as daylight, touching her as he never dared to before. She hated causing them distress, but she was confident she would not be a burden much longer.

If she were granted another chance, another life to make amends for all the mistakes on her soul, she would change everything. But for the life she had, there were no overwhelming regrets. Meg would hear what happened from her mother and another would take her rightful role as Aminita, yet it was all trite compared with what waited for her on the other side.

Warmth, light, love, happiness, and her father's gentle voice coaxing forward. When she would return to her body and heard the hushed sobs of her caretaker, she held her breath and willed herself into that other world. Her heartbeat slowed, her breath caught, and she was beyond her all human emotion, beyond all pain; total freedom from the prison of her body.

_Let go…_

The part of her that still lived was slipping under the weight of her desire. An arm, yet not an arm, stretched from her body to embrace its eminent arrival. But as it widened, the other held firm in its place. Something was pulling her back and she had not the energy to fight. And maybe… just maybe, she was not willing to leave her earthly desires yet.

But if it was easy to die, it was even more terrifying to live.

* * *

Antoinette had lived long enough to know the feebleness of regret. Energy spent wishing for a life you never had was wasted for the life that was. She never regretted Serge, their child, or the illness that robbed him from her. She regretted nothing, but that did not stop her from seeing every mistake she made that might have prevented Christine's impending death.

"Nothing," she repeated, willing herself to remain calm. "There is nothing you can do for her?"

Erik's hands were in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the bed. "I have never encountered anything that cures jimsonweed and I do not think it is the only thing at work here. It is beyond me."

"Then she will die?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I daresay we will know very decidedly soon."

She could feel her mind working at an alarming pace. Antoinette wanted someone to blame and the webs she imagined that lead to this all started at the same source; Erik. It was his cruelty, his obsession, his damnable face that lead them here. And now he had the audacity to make jokes! It was a horrible thought on her part, but Madame Giry would have rather stayed with her daughter then watch this child of her heart die. She could not forgive Erik the show.

"There is a light meal in the kitchen. I will let you know, Madame, if anything changes."

So he was relieving her? She could guess why. Moments of mortality often brought moments of truth. There could be nothing for him to confess that Christine did not suspect and Antoinette did not like the idea of Erik unburdening himself in the young woman's last earthly moments. Still, she could not deny him a last respite with his living muse.

Her feet could not leave fast enough, but she slowed as she approached the doorway. At the door, she paused and turned back to him. Erik, already taken her seat, was pouring a cup of water into the sick woman's dry throat. With one hand, he moved to place the cup back on the nightstand, with the other, he smoothed the girl's sweaty hair from her face.

"Erik, for what it is worth, I am sorry."

The glass exploded in a thousand shards on the ground. Water sank into the fine carpeting but it was lost to its owner. Snatched from the recesses of his dark thoughts, his face was finally opened to her as it snapped to attention and what Antoinette saw melted something inside of her.

He lay Christine down gently as an infant and raised his eyes to her.

"Thank you," he said, and Antoinette knew how he meant it.

She shut the door and left them alone.

When he was confident Madame Giry was out of hearing range, Erik leaned forward in his chair and whispered, "Christine? Christine, can you hear me?"

Nothing, not even a moan.

He suspected the ballet mistress thought he had an ulterior motive for dismissing her from the sickbed. He had once. He wanted to tell her their kiss had been the death of his freedom and his wretched heart was forever her possession. He wanted to apologize for the deceit of their first meeting and all that followed. He wanted to rage at her for being so headstrong to refuse his demands and venturing beyond his protection.

But no, he couldn't. There was no point anymore.

His hand snaked its way across the bed until it reached her hand. He turned it over so the palm lay up, open and waiting.

"It was all a lie, you know. All of it. Every story your father told you was a fabrication to dry your tears. There is no angel of music, there are no angels. If you die, there is nothing waiting for you at the end. We are all forgotten in time and you are not above that."

His hand raced the pulsing veins of her wrist until they disappeared into her palm. He felt the folds of flesh that made her love line and the long curve of her life line.

"All beauty in this world. All sorrow, all sadness, everything."

She did not even have the decency to die with dignity. Her brown mass of hair fanned around her thinning body. The light sheen and redness of her face nearly equalized their attractiveness and her body splayed in the most undignified fashion that bordered on wanton. It was a cruel substitute for the woman he knew she really was.

"Have mercy on me Christine. All my beauty of my world will die with you."

And if he felt her hand twitch beneath his own, it could only be a figment of his grief-stricken brain.

* * *

She was not alive. She couldn't be. Life did not exist in moments of fevered lightening, rolling through the body like a rampaging giant. Living skin did not betray with irrational fluctuations of damp fire and freezing drought. Life was not this hellish wasteland of sensation so she could not be alive.

She knew nothing beyond the pain. There was nothing beyond the last episode and dreading the next. They came like clockwork always on time, always brining her closer to something she feared and welcomed. Christine before no longer existed, nor did Christine in the future. Christine_ was_ only the present. But even that was fading.

Eventually, she could not remember if she had a name or if she had lived in a time before this. Thoughts came to her against a drug-induced current and the moment she grasped one, it slipped away. She saw a man with a violin and another with a ring. She saw a woman's exhausted face as it looked down at her from above, and a baby rabbit struggling in the snow. One word penetrated the thick of her mind and she held onto it as her only anchor.

Another fever wrecked through her body and she was drowning again. She hoped this time she would not surface. Peace loomed before her in the form of nothingness. Her price for freedom was oblivion and it yawned before her in terrifying beauty.

_How quaint, how wonderful_, she thought as she swayed closer to eternity.

But she did not plunge. The anchor she had held onto was now holding her and it refused to let go.

_You will not die,_ it said.

And she believed it because there was nothing else.


	21. A Woman Stretched Alone

**Chapter #21**

**A Woman Stretched Alone**

Christine re-emerged into existence slowly, mindful of every aching muscle she possessed in her body. Her arms lay at her sides, heedless of her commands, and every beat of her heart was answered by an agonizing pressure within the walls of her skull. She fought against consciousness, not seeking freedom from her fresh aches, but for the dreams she was leaving behind.

"No, not yet," she wanted to whispered to their fleeing bodies. "Just a little more time."

_Headache. Chills. Paralysis. A vague dampness around the body_.

Where was she?

Her arm hung over the side and she knew it was not her bed. Her own could fit four full-grown people. The coverings were coarse against her skin.

Nausea. She felt ill. If she slept, it would go away. No, her mind was wide awake and the dream was long gone.

Christine slowly opened one eye, then the other. She was definitely not in Erik's home.

This room was sparsely decorated; A few photographs and other trinkets gave the impression that someone lived here but did so for practical reasons alone. Next to the bed on a small vanity was a likeness of a young woman with light hair and laughing eyes. The image must have been over twenty years old and Christine felt as if she knew her.

The door opened and Meg came in carrying a teapot and bread on a simple wooden tray. She was too focused upon her task to notice anything beyond keeping the teapot's balance, and Christine smiled at her friend as she tried to keep it vertical.

By now, feeling was returning to her arms, prickling along her limbs in annoying pins and needles; more frustrating still, the pain in her skull persisted. She was finally able to budge one arm from its awkward position, moving it onto her stomach, and discovered much to her horror that she wore a plain shift and nothing more.

Meg caught her friend's movements and her look of concentration instantly changed into one of delight.

"Christine! You're awake!?"

She deposited the tray on the dresser and sat down on the bed. The extra weight caused the bed to shift slightly and Christine bumped into Meg's thigh.

"How do you feel? No, don't tell me yet. Maman said you might be weak when you woke. Here, have some tea."

Christine clearly had no choice in the matter, and submitted to her friend's orders. She had not realized how thirsty she was until the chamomile hit her tongue. Suddenly, she felt as if she had gone years without liquids, and the cup was empty moments later. Meg took it away and Christine waited for another; she did not think the entire contents of the teapot would be enough for her.

"Now," Meg left the cup on the tray and arranged herself on the bed, "how _do_ you feel?"

_Tired_, she wanted to say, _and thirsty_. When she tried to voice this, scar tissues clamped down in her throat and no words passed through. Christine clutched her neck and coughed; tears appearing in the corners of her eyes from the sharp pain.

"I'm sorry, I forgot. He said you would not be yourself yet. Here, have some more tea."

Christine waved away the offer at the mention of a 'he.' There was no doubt in her mind who _he_ would be, but she could not imagine her frightening tutor conversing with her best friend on her health or any other form of normal conversation.

Christine covered the right side of her face with her hand. Meg did not understand what she was doing and handed her more tea. Christine batted the cup away and tried again. When Christine gave her best scowl, Meg knew what she meant.

"Oh! He's not here right now, but he was a few hours ago. I didn't even notice that he was gone until Maman called to tell him that his tea was ready. One moment he was here, the next, _poof_!"

Meg laughed, Christine smiled. Meg often gave off the appearance that any situation no matter how dire or how hapless could be solved with several minutes of laughter. Christine knew it was all an act, that Meg felt things far deeper than she let on. But that streak of maturity inherited from her mother still took Christine by surprise whenever Meg decided it was needed.

"Christine," Meg said, leaning closer into her friend's body, "do you remember what happened?"

Christine started to shake her head 'no' but stopped herself and shrugged. She remembered the visit to the apothecary's wife with Sorelli, the attack in the alley, and the appetizers at Madame Ferry's; everything after that was a blur.

"Maman said you were ill, but that was is. Christine, what is going on? Is this _his_ doing?"

There was no question in who she was talking about. Had their roles been switched, Christine might have wondered the same thing. In her eyes, there was no one really to blame . Sorelli, maybe for her poor decisions. But even the lustful dancer could not have predicted what had or would happen in the future. Erik only had excellent timing.

Christine shook her head. Meg's eyes softened. She took Christine's hand and held it to her chest.

"Do not, under any circumstances, try to die on me again, Christine. If you do, I shall be forced to use Maman's cane on you and you know how I think that thing is ugly." Meg raised Christine's hand and kissed it. "Maman told me to fetch her when you awoke. Will you be fine by yourself if I go?"

Again, Christine nodded. She was getting used to the non-verbal communication, even if it was limiting. Meg squeezed her hand one last time and with a final smile, left the same way she came.

Alone again, without her best friend's presence to distract her, Christine's physical state would not be ignored. She was tired and slightly cross. Her head ached, her throat was sore, and she resented the fact that she was nearly naked without any knowledge of how she had become so, or who had been the one to put her in such a state. The thought of Erik removing her clothing was too embarrassing to consider, but clearly, she had been in no condition to do so herself. There was always Meg or Madame Giry.

Christine sank down under the covers. The movement pushed her long hair into a wild bush around her skull. Christine touched the strands found that they were soft with a light sheen to them, their usual roundness compromised by the hours she had lain on them. If she had been out as long as she suspected, she doubted anyone would risk putting her in a bath. She also doubted what she was about to do was wise, but anything was better than lying in this bed another moment.

Slowly, she inched her way towards the edge of the bed. The muscles in her abdomen quivered as she tried to sit up. Her body obeyed her commands, but they carried out their tasks as if they had all the time in the world.

Sitting straight up in bed was almost too much, and she was panting when she finally managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed. She placed one foot on the floor, then the other. She braced her hands on Meg's mattress and tried to ease her weight onto her legs. They gave out and she tumbled back onto the bed. The second time, she was able to stand, but when she attempted walking, she ended up on the ground, her legs trailing somewhere behind her.

She heard the door open, and stiffened slightly in apprehension. She wondered if it was more embarrassing to be undressed by a stranger, or be found on the ground with one's feet tangled behind their body. Her energy was spent and she lay facing the bedroom wall, waiting for her visitor to decide what to do. Heavy footsteps crossed the room and then stopped inches away from her body.

She thought she heard a sigh, or was it a groan? Arms lifted her off the ground and held her as if she weighed next to nothing. A hand brushed against her forehead and when the wayward curl no longer obstructed her view, she found herself looking into the face of Erik.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he said. He looked concerned and very annoyed.

Christine shook her head no. She would have a bruise on her forehead, but nothing hurt worse than her pride.

Erik placed her back onto the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"If you need anything, tell me or the Giry's and we will provide it for you. You are to do nothing besides recover until I say you are healthy again. No talking, no strolls, just rest. Do you understand?"

He was dressed elegantly, as if ready for a night at the opera. His hat, cloak, and tailcoat were absent, but he still had the look of a man on his way to a formal event. The sight brought Christine's own state back to her attention, and she scooted her way farther down under the covers.

Erik pulled Meg's desk chair next to the bed and sat down.

"Madame Giry felt it would be best for you to recover in their home where they can attend to your needs that I am not capable of fulfilling. I do not fully know what caused the illness, but when you do recover, I expect a full report on your evening at the Ferry's."

His hand disappeared into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of creamy, expensive paper. He dropped it on her lap and sat back to let her decide what to do with it.

Christine, now having recovered a bit of her strength, was able to lift it. She unfolded the paper and held it to the light. The handwriting was familiar, but she could not remember from where.

_My Dearest Mademoiselle Daae,_

_I hope this letter finds you in a better state than when you left. My gracious hostess checked into the matter and discovered that aged, possibly rancid, beef has been the cause of several illnesses in her staff. The matter has been dealt with and those responsible have been put out. I myself suffered the day in bed and I hope your experience was no worse than mine._

_I write this letter to beg your attendance next week at my intended's home. My dear Philippe has finally seen the error in his ways and agreed that an announcement of our engagement would be more agreeable now than after the new season at the opera. Your attendance at Madame Ferry's home made the evening very enjoyable and I hope you would do me the honor of being at the de Changy Château, this coming Friday._

_Your doting friend,_

_Lady Kathrina Deveraux_

Erik watched her reading the note. When she had opened her eyes back in his home when all seemed lost, it was heaven. When she squeezed his hand to let him know she was indeed alive, he felt he may die of happiness.

That joy was doubled at seeing her alive, doing something as ordinary as reading a letter. But it could not dismiss the crushing fear he had felt as he watched her die or in the filthy grip of that man in the alley. He did not know how to fear, he choose instead to hate.

When she was done, her arm dropped down onto her lap and lay like a dead fish. She looked thoughtful, as if contemplating a hidden meaning in the noblewoman's words, or perhaps trying to recall what she had meant in the first place.

"I have already taken the liberty of sending your regrets, my dear. Do not bother to look outraged," his voice was cool and level, but with an edge that made her head snap to attention. "If you think I am letting you wander the city after nearly…" He paused, and then continued, "…after all that, you had best rethink it."

She was glad she had no voice. It saved her the trouble of starting the same argument over again. Her hands lay above the covers on her lap. One held the letter, the other was empty. Christine closed the left hand into a fist, and then opened it again. She did it again and again and the patterns on her palm were still the same.

_How long_? she wondered. How long had she been unconscious and who was it that nursed her back to health? She looked at Erik and he looked back. Those tired, pleading eyes told her more than his words ever did but words still stung and she could not find it in her to be forgiving now.

Christine raised a hand and pointed towards the small clock on Meg's dresser. Erik turned, saw it, and understood.

"Three days," he said. "Your fever broke sometime yesterday."

There was a knock at the door and at Erik's call, Madame Giry entered alone.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the ballet mistress did not look the least bit sorry. "Christine needs a bath."

Erik stood up and nodded at Madame Giry. Before he could walk away, he felt something tug on his sleeve. Christine was on the other end and for once, it was she whose face was unreadable.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was a rough shadow of its usual beauty.

She squeezed his hand with a surprising amount of strength and before Erik could think about what was happening, he squeezed back.

Madame Giry shut the door behind him when he left. She turned and leaned against the door and gave Christine a slight smile. She returned it. Her eyes were obscured from fatigue and the weight of all that she knew, but a look passed between them and an understanding of something was shared that warmed Christine.

Madame Giry came to the bed and handed Christine a towel. "Take no offense to what I am about to say, Christine, but you really need this."

And Christine was in no position to disagree.

* * *

_A/N: I can honestly say this is the last of the slow chapters. After this, I throw it into the blender again and things get messy to say the least._

_A wealth of thanks is owed to my new beta, who graciously stepped into place to correct my foibles. To take on a story nearly half-way through is no easy task and I thank her for her efforts, wisdom, patience, and all other good qualities she has._

_Also, there has been a lag in reviews lately. I take most of the blame for writing forced chapters and have, say, three month lags in updates. But readers need to know that any author is very insecure when it comes to writing and any kind of response, whether good or bad is our lifeblood. I can see who gets updates and how many hits each chapter receives, so please, do me a favor and leave a review._

_On a side note, I watched the Herbert Lom version of Phantom over the weekend. No chemistry between Christine and the Phantom whatsoever, he seeks her out to teach her how to sing and it goes no further than that. If you're an obsessive, like me, see it just so you can say you did. Other than that, it's not a very entertaining piece. sigh What I'd give for a Kay-inspired movie._

_Review, review, review, please._


	22. Night Freedom

**Chapter #22**

**Night Freedom**

He never came to her during the day. When the Giry's had long since taken to their beds, Christine would lie awake and wait for him. She counted the seconds between breaths, waiting for the time when shadows would part and he would be there.

He never spoke beyond basic inquiries on her health, simple question of the sort that could be answered with a nod. She was still forbidden to speak until he deemed her well enough, and she was secretly glad of the excuse to keep silent. One did not make small talk with a ghost.

Sometimes, he would present her with a vial of syrup for her throat. Other times, he would simply watch over her until she fell asleep. She did not know which she preferred; she was simply thankful that he was there.

"Are you well?" he had asked one night. As her communication was limited, she only nodded.

She was recovering quicker then anyone could have guessed. Every day she felt she was ready to leave the confines of her bed and return to rehearsals, life, and Erik. But her care-takers insisted she remain in bed until they were absolutely certain she would not come under any more harm.

"Perhaps," he went on, "… perhaps you need not stay here much longer. You might come home."

It frightened her that 'home' now brought images of a dark house and alluring music instead of the cottage she once had in Uppsala. It terrified her how much she wanted to be back there, hidden beneath the earth. She could not speak, he knew that she could not, but if her face showed any confusion over her own feelings, Erik took it as a repugnance to the idea of being alone with him again.

"Perhaps not."

He would never ask her again.

There was freedom in the night, Erik had taught her that. And as the days went on, and she waited for his nightly arrivals by her side, she unleashed something she had kept hidden inside her for so long. It was her own secret, a tiny treasure that she nursed as it spread throughout her body and became a part of her. She knew it was dangerous, and that the very thought of it was somewhat illogical. But every sensible thing in her life had failed her, perhaps the less sensible path would lead her to what she was missing. Besides, no one need know it was there but her.

This newfound feeling brought with it a renewed sense of restlessness. The time between Erik's visits felt as if it were growing. She needed to get out, see life outside of the Giry's rooms. She knew her limits-- a full return to life might kill her-- but she needed something beyond those same four walls everyday.

That night, when Erik handed her the vial, her hand passed it and gripped his wrist. The sudden look of terror that crossed his eyes made her bold, and she tugged on the cuff until he fell awkwardly on the edge of her bed.

She had successfully rendered him speechless, and the excitement of it ran hot in her veins. She wished she had her voice, or even a physical window to try to tell him what she wanted. But none of this had been planned and she felt it might cheapen the sincerity of her wish if it was conveyed easily.

Christine met his eyes again and smiled. He returned it, though cautiously and tried handing her the vial again. She did take it this time. She met his eyes again, raised the vial to her lips, and drank all of its contents.

It was always the same. She felt the sage glide down her through and steal away feeling. The honey would follow, and the bitter herb would linger on the edges as she felt song return to her body.

She let the taste fade, but she kept the strength of it for what she was about to do.

"I want to go outside," she said suddenly and for a moment she was as startled as Erik to hear her own voice after so long. Erik blinked but said nothing. He crossed one leg casually over the other, as if he had chosen to sit there himself, and waited for her to continue.

"I want-" she was getting tired with the effort of talking, and tried to form small words that would make him understand. "I'm bored and I-"

"No more talking." He stood and took the vial from her. "You would not want to ruin your voice."

He held his hand out to her and for a moment she stared at it dumbly, wondering if he was going to punish her somehow for speaking. His eyes were gentle, though, and if he meant to harm her in anyway, she could not imagine him doing it with the Giry women in the other room.

When she gave him her hand, he pulled her to her feet. Her legs gave way under this new strain and Erik gripped her elbow as she saw stars dance in front of her eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly as he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her body.

"Relieving you of boredom, my dear. No more talking."

He swept her up in his arms and carried her to the doorway. He paused, listening for any signs of life, then pushed it open. Christine could hear the undisturbed sounds of Madame Giry's snoring, and the occasional murmured response from her daughter. Neither would present any disturbance for some time.

The silence outside of the Giry's apartment was oppressive. It seemed to push in on Christine's skull as would an orchestra in full crescendo. But an orchestra seized the imagination of the listener; hers was free in this and it drifted into fear.

They did not stay in the open for long. What appeared to be a solid, wood pillar opened at an invisible command by Erik. They entered into a dark alcove and Erik pulled his cape tighter around Christine's body. The space was clean, save for inevitable dust, and it was barely larger than the span of Erik's shoulders. The air was bitingly cold, but the body that held her was surprisingly warm. She huddled closer and felt his grip on her tighten.

They continued farther in, and the alcove opened into a space large enough for at least four people to stand, with personal space. One wall seemed to be radiating heat, and while it was more pleasant on her skin then the chill of the alcove, it heightened the musk of the air and made it somewhat difficult to breathe.

Erik lowered her legs and let her slide down his body until she found her footing. The ground was still cold.

"Wait here," he said. He looked her over once to make sure she would be fine by herself, and then disappeared around the corner.

Erik's cloak offered ample protection against draft, but in her hurry to leave her room, she had forgotten slippers. She shifted from foot to foot to fight off the chill, but it became useless once she lost feeling in both. She considered standing on the edges of the cloak, but to ruin such a fine garment would be almost criminal.

Christine had spent a great deal of time immobile lately; her strength was limited and already nearly drained by this attempt at amusement. It would not be long before the comfort of her feet would have to be sacrificed for the comfort of her person. She was simply too tired to continue shifting, and standing was rapidly becoming too difficult for her. Her body swayed towards the wall for support. She misjudged the distance and lost her balance. Her back connected with the wall and a loud _bang_ echoed throughout the alcove.

The shock of it caused Christine to stand straight up. The memory of the last time she had been forced against a wall made her shiver.

At that moment, Erik returned carrying an excellent, velvet chair.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Christine pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders.

"No, I'm just a bit weak."

Erik placed the chair facing near the opposite wall and motioned for her to sit.

"What's going on?" she asked as she sat. She thought she saw a smirk touch his lips.

"You'll see."

Christine was almost a woman and that position required that she abandoned some of her girlish faith in fairy tales. Since that voice had called her from her mirror, she had been forced to regress, or at least challenge the requirements of adulthood. In the Phantom's world, there were angels, magic, and walls were simple objects to be bended at whim.

Erik removed a section of the wall to reveal a heavily ornamented office. A desk was the focal point with a chair sitting awkwardly at the side. A bookshelf filled with literature that seemed to gleam in the gaslight was on the opposite wall. There were posters from various productions lining the walls from the earliest days of the opera to the most recent. But was truly caught Christine's eye was a painting of a plump, rosy faced woman, with the name plate declaring, "Marcella Paradiso-Firmin," was the subject.

"This is the manager's office!" Christine declared, her voice still retaining strength from the vial. "Why are we here?"

"Yes, just wait and see."

It was not long before the two themselves strolled in; Firmin leading and fuming over the injustices of the world, Andre following quietly behind. Meg once told her the opera never slept and seeing the two of them at this late hour, confirmed it.

"I'm telling you, Andre, its highway robbery! A despicable crime!"

"Don't you think you are being a bit dramatic," his partner questioned calmly and it only served to make the deep flush over his partner's face deepen.

"Absolutely not! We've known the man, what? Fifteen years? And he gives us that price for less than the same amount of lumber than our original purchase! If I had done something like that to you, old boy, you'd say that I had stabbed you in the back!"

Christine looked at Erik for some hint as to what was going on, but he merely shrugged.

"And," he went on, "he wants ten percent of the profits!"

"I'd say he's a smart man," Andre replied, sitting in one of the guest chairs in front of the desk.

"No he's not, he's a lying crook, and I hope some of his wood falls on his head in the lumber yard."

"Come now, Firmin, is that any way to speak about someone you've known fifteen years?" his partner mocked. Firmin circled around the desk and picked up a pile of mail sitting on top.

"I just don't get it, man. What is so different between us now and us when we were in the junk business?"

"Scrap metal," he corrected. "And to answer your question: notoriety. We command far more respect now then we did pedaling parts to the sleazy railroad companies. Our lumber dealer friend is simply taking advantage of our friendship and increasing income. Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same back in our day, Firmin. Remember how you racked up the prices for that orphanage when you found out the Vicomte's family were the patrons?"

Firmin grumbled something under his breath about how they used to make more money, then swayed backwards with his mail still in hand. It was not until his backside made a painful connection to the floor that Christine realized her chair was exactly identical to the other chair behind the desk, off center.

Christine covered her mouth to hide her laughter. Andre did not bother to mask his. He laughed openly at his partner, who was wriggling like an upturned turtle, then circled around the desk to help him up.

"Where the bloody-hell is my chair?" Firmin demanded, now as red as a tomato.

"I don't know, could be the work of the phantom?" Andre said wryly as he sat himself down in the other chair.

"Speaking of which, do you have any bright ideas?"

"About what?"

"About everything. I spoke to our noble ballet mistress yesterday and she is not budging. We cannot allow Giry another _two_ _weeks_ of practice before we start rehearsal. Most of the performers will have forgotten their parts by then, if they haven't already."

"Then what do you propose? Only that woman knows where the Daaé girl is and she will not give her up unless she gets her way. You know what that madman said: no Christine, no opera!"

Christine looked at Erik, but his attention was on the managers. She knew that Erik had always been demanding on the advancement of her career, but to see how far he would go at the expense of everyone else who depended on this place, was still shocking.

"Andre, do you think this will work?" Firmin asked his partner, almost shyly.

"It's not a question of what I think anymore; It's what we _need_. And unless this bloody opera brings in triple what it did last time, we'll be heading back to scrap metal, and everyone else is on their own."

"And what if it doesn't work? We can't drain that Chagny family any more then we have. The Comte was against us taking over and now that the young one is going off to be blown up by savages in Tunisia, I doubt we will be seeing any more of the de Chagny wealth. That's why this farewell party for the boy is so bloody important."

Christine sucked in a harsh breath.

"I thought they were announcing the Comte's engagement to that German lady."

"Ah, the lovely Lady Deveraux. Yes, but it's mainly because his older brother wouldn't let him go without a proper send off. The poor boy probably won't come back."

Andre made a move to stand up, but something kept him. He tried again, but he was held fast in his own chair. Erik turned himself, hoping to see Christine amused, but all he found was a stony expression. Not even Firmin's own laughter changed it.

Christine met his eyes and she could see something akin to disappointment shining in them. She stood, swaying only slightly as she found her strength, and then marched off in the direction that they had come from. Erik followed.

When she had reached the end of the tunnel, she was shaking, but she found the strength to turn and ask, "Did you know?"

He swept passed her and hit the mechanism to open the door into the hallway, stepping aside to let her through. She did not want to be near him, but she knew she would faint soon if she did not return to bed.

"You need help," he said as she passed him. He moved to sweep her up again in his arms, an act he would still relish despite her anger.

"If you touch me, I'll scream." There were hundreds of people, all mad with the desire to see him dead, sleeping close by. For once, Christine felt she had the upper hand.

Erik, however, did not see it that way. As she tried slowly making her way back, he did indeed sweep her into his arms, and covered her mouth with an over-sized hand. Fighting was out of the question, but she concentrated all the anger in her body through her eyes and onto his face.

The Giry's were still sleeping when they returned. Erik deposited her on the bed, and blew out the few remaining candles that lit the room. As he was about to leave, he heard her voice.

"Was it all just one last resort to get me away from him? Convincing me to stay below with you so that even if I did escape, _he_ would be dead?"

Silence always answered better than words. The truth was so entangled with happy coincidences for him, lies by omission, and forces working that he could not identify, an answer was utterly useless. He did not know if he could give one.

"If you find my presence unbearable Christine, then you may have it no more." She heard the fluttering of his cape, and felt the breeze too when the door opened and closed. Christine knew that he would not come to visit her anymore.

Unbearable? No, she found it quite the opposite. But she had thought- _hoped_ was probably the proper word- that with that they had moved past jealous motives when they had sat together on the floor and listened to the barrel organ.

… _perhaps in time, we may come to know each other a little better…_

His words, seemingly a lifetime ago. She was no closer to knowing him then she had been at the beginning. And somehow, knowing that jealousy was still driving him behind this new man she had come to know, even care for, hurt.

_And to think_, she thought as she drifted back to sleep, _I almost let myself love him._


End file.
